


And all I loved, I loved alone.

by Caesarscat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, F/M, Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2020-01-05 11:36:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18365213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caesarscat/pseuds/Caesarscat
Summary: Sansa Stark has been missing, presumed dead, for four years now- ever since the infamous death of King Joffrey at his own wedding.At age 18, Alayne Stone lives undisturbed in the Eeyrie with her father, Petyr Baelish until she is told that Prince Jon will be visiting.Jon Targaryen, previously Snow, was presumed to be the bastard of Ned Stark. But after the truth of his parentage was revealed, Jon moved to Kingslanding to be closer to his aunt, Daenerys, who is trying to rule the Seven Kingdoms. She doesn’t have all the Kingdoms on her side and is trying peaceful ways to gain them without violence. Jon is the last hope in negotiations before she unleashes her dragons’ full potential on Westeros.Alayne is scared over the prospect of seeing Jon again. Meanwhile, Jon can’t seem to get Alayne out of his mind. Will the truth come out?





	1. The Targaryen Prince

╔═════☩══♛══☩═════╗

“I just thought I should let you know,” said Alayne’s father nonchalantly, “the Targaryen Prince is coming to visit today.”  
Alayne struggled not to spit out her eggs over the breakfast table.

  
The Targaryen prince? Her heart skipped a beat. Alayne snapped her head to look at her father.

  
He always sat at the head of the table; that way, he could easily observe the room. From there, one could watch the door; monitor the sitting area and spy on whomever was at the bureau. However, he had his back to the large window that displayed the surrounding mountain range. The abyss below terrified him.

  
Alayne on the other hand welcomed the view, she often thought it looked more like a painting than real life. Sunlight poured through the window and blue flecks bounced along the walls due to the window’s stained glass decoration. The light casted an ominous shadow over her father’s face.

  
Although seemingly immersed in his letters, Baelish was judging her reaction. Alayne knew he always was.

  
“Jon,” Alayne painfully pushed down the urge to say his old name,” Targaryen?”

  
Her palms began to sweat as she waited for her father to answer. After what felt like an age, Baelish looked up from his post. He have his signature condescending smile.

  
“Of course Jon Targaryen, my sweet.” He laughed. “Who else is a Targaryen prince?”

  
With that, Alayne’s mind began to race. What does Jon Targaryen want with The Vale? Does he know? No he couldn’t...could he?

Suddenly, all the impossibilities became possible. She began to spiral. Perhaps he came looking for Sansa Stark?...But Sansa Stark is dead, she thought miserably.

  
Alayne knew better than to reveal her true emotions to her father. She had learnt how to hide and suppress her feelings a long time ago.

  
Her mouth was dry as the Dornish desert but she managed croak, “Why is he coming?”

  
Her father was met her eyes but Alayne knew that he was trying thinking of an adequate response. His mouth twitched.

Alayne took a sip of juice to moisten her throat. However, as she was drinking a thought entered her mind. She abruptly stopped drinking and almost slammed the goblet down on the oak table.

  
“And why didn’t you tell me sooner? You must have known he was coming many moons ago.”

  
The more she thought about it, the more vexed she became. (Shamefully, a small part of her felt betrayed.) If she had known, she could have prepared herself for Jon Targaryen.

A lifetime ago she knew Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell. She did not know this Targaryen prince.

  
“Jon,” Petyr stated, choosing his words carefully, “on behalf of his aunt Daenerys Stormborn, is coming to The Vale to negotiate.”

Alayne knew the cogs in his brain were spinning as he didn’t meet her eye.

  
“Daenerys may have conquered most of the South; the Tyrell’s, Tarlys, Baratheons are gone. The Lannister’s are all but gone,” Alaynes mind went straight to the imp, who was now working for his houses enemy.

  
“However, the Great Conqueror still needs Dorne, The Vale, The Riverlands and The North.”

  
“Dorne has fallen thanks to the stupidity of women. The Riverlands is a free for all apparently. The North will not bend, even to Jon. She needs the Vale on her side. We refuse to bend the knee to the dragon queen but perhaps we can figure out an agreement,” he simply said. He was telling the truth, she lived with him long enough to know.

  
He looked up at her and gave a short smile. Alayne wasn’t satisfied and Petyr knew it. He learned over close and grabbed her hand.

  
“My dear, I didn’t think to tell you because I didn’t think it would mean anything to you, why would it?”

He was so close, Alayne could smell the mint on his breath. His sickly sweet tone forced Alayne to suppress a cringe.

  
“And...you were so busy with Robin, I didn’t want to trouble you further,” Petyr cooed. He gazed at their hands and started rubbing his thumb over hers.

She wanted argue back. To tell him that as his daughter she ought to know. Say that something as big as a prince visiting is worth noting. She began to wonder how she didn’t notice but then it clicked.

  
She was busy with Robin. Too busy to notice why people were rushing around her. No one wanted to talk to her; rooms went quiet when she entered- she hadn’t even been in contact with her friends. Her father purposely kept it secret.

Alayne thought it was her, that they were gossiping about her and nobody really liked her. Her father purposely kept her busy with Robin. He had been so ill... Did Robin know all along? He’s the Lord of the Vale, he ought to have known. But...Robin is Robin, she thought, it’s best not to stress him.

  
Not only did her father keep it a secret but he told everyone else to keep it from her too. She felt so stupid for not seeing it. But that’s what I am, Alayne thought, a stupid little girl who never learns.

  
She opened her mouth to speak but soon closed it. Alayne became acutely aware of her father’s hand on top of hers. She added her free hand to the pile and looked at her father prettily through her eye lashes, murmuring, “Yes father, of course you are right.” She knew better than to reply in anger.

  
Baelish nodded, his arrogant demeanour remained constant. Alayne hated his smiles more than his scowls. She hated the insincerity of them; they were always closed mouthed, his eyes crinkled at the edges. His mouth smiled but his eyes never did. Most of all she hated how patronising they were, they made her feel two feet tall.

  
Alayne waited for him to move his hand but he lingered. He was reviewing her. Alayne never knew where to look when he did this. Petyr raised her hands to his lips and kissed lightly. After that, he dropped them, returning to his letters.

  
Alayne glimpsed at her father before going back her breakfast. His grey-green eyes followed along to the words of the page but his facial features were unaffected and umoving. Alayne saw something in those cat-like eyes that spoke a thousand words.

  
Alayne glanced down at her plate. The bacon and eggs no longer looked appealing. She felt bad for wasting food in the harsh winter but her stomach churned. Someone else will eat it, she was sure. For now, Jon Targaryen was coming and she must prepare herself.

  
“Father, may I be excused?” She asked, pushing away her plate.

He nodded, still focused on his post. Alayne got up, the chair scraping the stone floor as she did, and made her way around the dining table.

  
Unexpectedly, Baelish grabbed her arm as she walked past him.

  
The grip was hard, like an iron vice. She stifled a yelp.

  
She looked down at her arm and then at her father.

  
Petyr glared at her but sweetly remarked, “You know I will always protect you, sweet girl.”

  
Alayne nodded, eager to be let go.

  
“And that everything I do is for your benefit.”

  
Alayne nodded again, this time eyeing her arm.

  
“Alayne!” He called her to attention.

  
“Yes, father! Of course I do and I appreciate everything you do for me! Everything I have, I owe to you, father!” Alayne recited.

He was hurting her.

  
Baelish observed her in silence, and after a few more seconds, he released her.  
Alayne stepped back, letting her arm fall beside her. She hoped it wouldn’t bruise.

  
“Now, come give your father a kiss,” he instructed patting his lips with his index finger.

  
Alayne hesitated but acquiesced. Bending over, she planted a kiss on his mouth.  
She could taste the mint.

  
“Good girl,” his voice was almost a purr, “now go and get ready for our guests. I expect you to look as beautiful as ever.”

  
Alayne gave her father a closed-mouth smile and a brief curtsy. Once her back was turned her smile disappeared instantly.

Alayne fled the room before her father could say anything else.

╚═════☩══✦══☩═════╝

 

╔═════☩══♛══☩═════╗

Alayne’s room was her sanctuary.

Despite being the Lord Protector’s illegitimate daughter, her room wasn’t as luxurious as one would expect. But Alayne didn’t care, she was just grateful to have a roof over her head.

Her room had vaulted ceilings, painted in the Eeyrie’s signature blue that made Alayne feel like she was looking at a starless sky every night. It felt like it was taunting her almost, in more ways than one.

  
During this harsh winter, Alayne curled up in front of the fire and sewed, or embroidered or read for hours on end. She did anything she could to keep her hands busy and her brain occupied.

  
The best feature of her room however was the south facing windows. (Her father gave the room to her specially for that exact reason.) The sun tickled her toes each morning.

  
She could see over the mountains for miles and miles. Sometimes she could even hear the howling of wolves in the distance. It was an oddly comforting sound. The Eeyrie stood alone high up in the clouds, isolated from the outside world.

In these mountains, she forgot the troubles of the Lions, Dragons and even the Direwolves. In these mountains, Alayne could forget who she was.

  
But at this moment in time, Alayne was anything but serene. Heavy thoughts weighed on her mind to the point where she thought her head would burst.

  
She sat down on her bed and hyperventilated. She didn’t know how else to react. Panic flooded her veins. Only when she started to choke on her spit did she try to breathe calmly.

After a while, her body willed her to carry on, even if her mind could not.

  
Alayne washed her face in the special rose water her father bought her.

I supposed he’s changed, she thought, I’ve changed too...

He was the Lord Commander of the Nights Watch and went over the wall. She could only imagine what that was like.

Alayne knew that the Nights Watch is not what it once was. The Brothers in Black have no honour- they are nothing but criminals forced to be there.

She began to remember horror stories she was told of the wildings, monstrous creatures and worst of all, the wight walkers. She hoped that the prince hadn’t faced anything half as bad in his time at the Wall.

  
Alayne peered into the looking glass on her dressing table. The young woman before her had tears in her eyes that were quickly blinked away.

  
Fumbling, she undid the plait that remained from the night. Her hands were shaking slightly so it took double the time than it usually would.

She started to methodically brush her hair in an effort to still them. But again her mind wandered.

  
Her father didn’t say much about Jon. She didn’t know why he left the Nights Watch. He swore an oath- and she knew Jon Snow would never go back on an oath sworn by the old gods. But he is not Jon Snow, a part of her said, he’s Jon Targaryen.

  
Her father did tell her that Jon changed when he found out his true heritage. It awoke the dragon inside. And what followed was a unnatural resentment towards the Starks.

It was Edward Stark who kept the secret from him all those years, who let him to live as a bastard. Her father said that he was out end the Stark line forever.

Jon Targaryen was a danger to her. From what Alayne remembered, Jon Snow was brooding and moody but kind and understanding- he was not the vengeful type. Jon Snow could never be mad with any Stark for long...even she, someone who barely interacted with him...

  
Regardless, she refrained from any Northern hairstyle. She was a Stone from the Vale, not a Snow from the North.

Alayne tried to remember how Margaery Tyrell used to do her hair. She didn’t know why she chose the Margaery, she hadn’t thought of her in a long time. I suppose all my ghosts are coming back to haunt me now, Alayne thought.

  
She finished her hair with a silver mockingbird clip that had a tiny black sapphire for an eye, and placed it at her crown. It was a gift for her last name day and hadn’t stopped wearing it since. It was her most valuable possession.

  
Alayne needed to chose her dress carefully, certain colours were off limits.

After much deliberation, she chose a safe emerald green. She didn’t want to stand out so this dress was perfect. There were no intricate patterns or details only a thin sliver belt to cinch the waist.

  
“Alayne!” Her father shouted,” Alayne, we must be leaving.”

  
“Yes father!”

  
She tied up the laces on her slippers as quickly as she could for someone in full corseted stays. She chastised herself for not putting them on first.

She practically ran to the door, not wanting to keep her father waiting for much longer. But as her fingers grasped the cold door knob, she found herself letting go.

The fear hit her again.

  
What if he does recognise her? How will her father be able to protect her from the Targaryen dragon lords?

Knots formed deep in her stomach. She swallowed the fear down.

“I am a bastard, I can be bastard brave,” she spoke, taking in long breaths.

╚═════☩══✦══☩═════╝


	2. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a strenuous journey, the Prince finally arrives at the Eeyrie to negotiate a deal with Vale on behalf of his aunt, Daenerys Targaryen. The meeting didn’t go entirely to plan, as he finds himself attracted to a certain dark-haired maiden.  
> Alayne, nervous and afraid, is forced to face her dark past.

╔═════☩══♛══☩═════╗

Jon’s journey to the Eeyrie was like nothing he had ever experienced. He had scaled The Wall, ridden a dragon and fought the Undead but nothing was quite like it. Every time he stared down into the abyss, all it did was stare back.

  
The wind bit at the party, trying its hardest to push them off the mountains edge. The ground was unsteady, constantly moving underneath their feet. And yet, the pack-mules were unnerved, hailing their life like they were strolling in a sunny meadow. trying to force them off the mountain edge. Usually, they were such fearful animals, so it was so peculiar to see them so tranquil.

  
If it wasn’t for Mya, he was certain his men couldn’t be convinced to make the climb. If the small, young girl wasn’t scared, then his big and burly men felt ashamed that they were. And Jon knew that nothing motivates men quite like a compromised manhood.

  
The bastard girl was lively, with more tenacity than most. Despite her years, she knew the mountain like it was an old friend. Mya Stone, the name of the Vale bastards suited her; she belonged to the rock, like she was birthed from it.

  
Mya was nimble and unbelievably trusting of the environment around her. She commanded the world- not the other way round. Jon couldn’t help but think of Arya when he saw her. He thought that she is like how Arya would have been.

The Eeyrie greeted them at the summit with such majesty that suddenly, the tremendous journey was worth it.  
The White Castle truly belonged in a fairytale and Jon’s imaginative mind couldn’t help but feel awe. The Castle’s many buildings were compact as the mountain peak prevented outward construction. Consequently, the towers were as high as the clouds to compensate; their blue roofs blending into the sky perfectly.

  
As high as honour, he recalled from Maester Luwin‘s lessons. His father, Ned Stark, grew up here and it soon became apparent to Jon where the man’s honour came from. It felt like a strange home-coming; his father and his namesake lived here. Many people still in the Eeyrie would remember the young Ned Stark. Jon hoped to hear some stories, but doubted anyone would dare mention anything now he’s a Targaryen.

His cloak whipped around him in the high altitude winds but Jon didn’t mind, the cold felt like an old friend. The heat in Kingslanding was unbearable. Jon was uncomfortable all the time and could barely sleep. Though now it’s winter, Jon supposed he would soon crave those warm summer nights. Unrelenting rays of sunlight shone in the party’s eyes, so they all squinted as they walked up to the Castle gates.

  
The gates were at least 20 feet tall, consisting of large wooden doors and two watch towers-one on either side. The doors were decorated with beautiful steel, worked into the shape of vines and flowers. Numerous Knights of the Vale were stationed all around the entrance; no one goes in, or out of the castle without them knowing.

  
The prestige of the Knights of the Vale was something Jon knew of; they are men who fight with real honour. However, Jon knew men, and he knew fighting; so naturally, he thought it was a pile of rubbish. But these guards stood tall and proud.

  
They wore multiple layers, the first being fur-trimmed grey leathers and the last, polished steel suits of armour. The guards had tall pikes in one hand, and shields depicting the Arryn falcon in the other; their sky blue cloaks flapped about them in the wind. Perhaps they really do fight with true chivalry, Jon pondered.

The main commander approached; the large blue feathers adhered to the top of his helm determining his high rank. He lifted up his visor, revealing stony blue eyes.

  
“Prince Jon Targaryen. It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Ser Lurs Egen and I am commander of the Castle Guard.”  
Jon nodded, mirroring the man’s cold formality.

  
“If you would, hand over the weapons.”

His voice was polite but Jon sensed hostility. They didn’t trust Targaryens.  
It was part of the agreement- Jon and his men shall enter the Eeyrie unarmed- but that didn’t make Jon feel any better.

  
Ser Egen took a step forward, perhaps in the effort that his superior height would intimidate the prince. His efforts were fruitless, Jon was rarely intimated by anyone anymore.

  
Jon looked over his shoulder at his own men, at his close advisor Ser Davos, and then back at Egen. He paused momentarily before reaching for his belt.

With a strained smile, he replied, “Of course.”

  
He could hear his men start to strip themselves of their weapons, and so more Vale guards came over to retrieve their extensive weaponry. Jon handed over all his weaponry to a random guard, but wanted to give over Longclaw to Ser Egen. He placed the Valyrian steel sword in Egen’s hands but didn’t let go.

  
“Make sure that sword doesn’t go missing.”

  
Jon wasn’t smiling this time. Ser Egen nodded.

  
“Do not worry Targaryen, I will be personally responsible for the sword. On my honour, I swear no harm will come to it,” he assured.

  
Jon knew what honour meant to a man like him and acquiesced. Feeling naked without Longclaw, all Jon could do was ask, “now can I enter?”

The Eeyrie’s Great Hall was huge; much bigger than Winterfell’s, and it was circular. The roof was domed and made out of glass, letting in vast amounts of sunlight. The skylight illuminated the room so that the gold-painted constellations on the blue walls almost glittered.

  
Jon didn’t pay much attention to the people at court around him. He didn’t want to come off as arrogant but truly, he was too nervous to look directly at the Vale Lords. So instead he feigned passing glances over the crowd, with the pretence of inspection.

  
As he walked into the centre of the room, he noticed a trap-door, encompassed by a little brick wall. He didn’t know what it was, and wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

  
Whispers were starting now and it made Jon more self conscious than ever. He decided to look at the people who he was actually here to talk to. There was a large staircase to the raised platform made out of white brick with gold trim. Everything here was one big ascent, Jon thought.

  
On the dias was the Vale’s ancestral seat; a huge driftwood throne that reflected multiple colours in the light. The chair dwarfed little Lord Robert, who sat watching him with tired eyes. Jon had heard that Lord Robert was a sickly boy, and his hollowed cheeks and pale face confirmed that. He was more than sickly; Robert was totally dependant on his carers.

  
He was dressed very much like a Lord, or rather too much to overcompensate for his appearance. He wore sky blue silk, which unfortunately only made his complexion look milky. The fine detailing on his attire was unusual for a boy of his age-someone had put a lot of effort into decorating his doublet and jerkin. Over the right breast was a white falcon spreading its wings and leaving the nest.

  
To the boys left was a young man, around Jon’s age. Jon knew that this had to be Harold Hardying, the heir to the Vale. The blond was handsome, with bright blue eyes and prominent cheekbones. He was far too smug for Jon’s liking.

  
In gathering information about who he was going to meet, Jon found out that Harold had fathered many bastards without a care. It only filled Jon with more contempt for him.

  
As Jon’s eyes averted to Robert’s right, rage rumbled deep within. Petyr Baelish. He was Lord Protector of the Vale; this was the man Jon had to appeal to, to negotiate with.

  
You need trust to come up with a deal, and how could he ever trust this man? His father had trusted Littlefinger and never returned home.

  
Baelish looked down at him with a condescending smile. It made Jon want smack him around the face.

  
But Jon had noticed someone else standing up there. It was a young girl, who stood shyly in the shadow of the Lord Protector. He hadn’t heard anything about a girl, and she must be someone important if she’s standing up there.

  
She was beautiful, with an incredible allure. Something about her was mesmerising. It was like he knew her from another life. He had seen her before, he knew it- he just couldn’t pin point where.

  
It wasn’t her tall, slender frame that made it difficult for Jon to look away. Or her high cheekbones, pouted lips or soft features. It were her eyes. Jon felt like he could drown in them.

  
She wasn’t looking at him. Oddly, she was the only person in the room who wasn’t looking at him. He wondered, whether she felt something too...

“Welcome, Jon Targaryen, to the Eeyrie,” Baelish spoke with hidden insincerity.

  
“The Vale welcomes you on peaceful terms.”

  
The men began to bow, and the ladies to curtsy, at Jon. He didn’t expect that. Not knowing how to reply, Jon bowed back.

  
“We hope that your journey was smooth and the ascent not too rough.”

  
The court quietly chuckled, as if part of an inside joke.

  
“We in the Vale pride ourselves on guest rites. We treat guests with the utmost respect, harking back to our liege Lords’ words of, ‘As High As Honour’.”

  
The young Lord perked up at this. He sat up in the huge chair, beaming with pride.

  
“We have no doubt that you will show us the same.

  
“It has been a long time since the blood of House Stark roamed these halls but today, we see it once again.”

  
Jon was furious. How dare he mention Ned Stark in front of him! He doesn’t deserve to speak his name. Besides, Littlefinger has no honour to promise.

  
But Jon bit his tongue, and said, “Thank you, Lord Baelish, for your warm words of welcome.”

  
He looked around him, at the groundlings, “and thank you, for your respectful greeting, it was greatly appreciated.”

  
Jon continued, “On my honour, there will  
be no reason why any conflict should occur during the visit.”

  
Jon peaked at the girl, who quickly averted her gaze.

  
Baelish began again, cutting through the silence, “Your aunt, Daenerys Targaryen, wishes for us to join her and bend the knee.”

  
Scattered amongst the room, were some people shaking their heads.

  
“We would have preferred it if she honoured us with her presence.”

Littlefinger’s tone was hostile.  
Jon’s jaw tightened.

  
“She may not be aware of Westerosi custom, but one usually would ask such a demand in person.”

  
He told her to come, that they would take offence, but she didn’t listen. His aunt hardly listens to anyone these days.

  
“I apologise for my aunt’s behaviour,” Jon rushed to reply, “Daenerys wishes to be here, very much so, but regretfully, she was unable to leave Kingslanding.”

Baelish did not look amused. Neither did Harold or the girl or even Robert. His aunt thought that using him to negotiate would favour their chances better than if it were her, a Targaryen outsider.

  
“Regardless, the Vale will never bend the knee to any Targaryen ruler,” Baelish said simply.

  
“But, we may be able to reach an agreement that will suit us both,”

  
Jon sighed but nodded solemnly.

  
“We shall enter into talks on the morrow, Jon Targaryen. For the moment, you must rest, for your journey has been far and long.”

  
The patronising smile returned.

  
Jon looked across to the Vale Lords, “On behalf of my men, we thank you deeply for your hospitality.”

  
Some of them subtlety nodded in reply, others merely looked in his direction.

  
Jon turned back to Littlefinger, “My Lord, we acknowledge the tremendous effort by hosting and entertaining us. We would hate to see those efforts wasted. I hope that together, we are able to reach an agreement.”

  
“For now, however, we ask to take our leave; the journey was arduous and we are all exhausted.”

  
The Lord Protector declared, “of course, we shall reconvene at the welcoming feast later tonight.”

  
Jon didn’t want a feast, he had no cares for partying or ritualistic welcoming. He was here to negotiate, not civil formalities. Nevertheless, he bowed once more.

  
Before he left, Jon had to have one last look at the dark-haired maiden. He couldn’t help himself, Jon was so drawn to her. He looked past her father and found her eyes.

This time, instead of looking away coyly, she stared right back at him. And just like that, Jon found himself drowning in her eyes.

╚═════☩══✦══☩═════╝

╔═════☩══♛══☩═════╗

Although they entered together, Alayne and her father were soon separated; he was needed for urgent last-minute business with the Vale Lords. With one last look at her over his shoulder, Baelish disappeared into the crowd.

  
Now that she was alone, the panic returned. All she had to do was blend in and not be seen- and Alayne knew she was good at that.

  
The Great Hall was packed full of people: all the Vale Lords and their entourages; plus the usual courtiers. Despite the room being overwhelmingly loud, Alayne could hear Myranda Royce’s voice.

Standing with Myranda was as good as anywhere else, Alayne thought. So she followed the voice.

  
Alyane soon found Myranda, and her friends, Enith and Darlyne, chatting amongst themselves. She could fit right in with a group of giggling girls, and there’s safety in numbers.

  
Myranda, energetic as ever, linked arms with her, “Alayne! I haven’t seen you in months! Where have you been?”

  
Alayne never knew if Myranda’s concerned questions were ever genuine. She loved gossip after all, so Alayne was always cautious with whatever she said around her.

  
“With Robin,” Alayne replied sorrowfully, “he’s been very sick recently and I’ve been taking care of him.”

  
Myranda made a sympathetic face, “oh poor bab-.”

  
The door had opened, and she stopped abruptly. Suddenly, she unlinked arms and whipped her head around to inspect.

It wasn’t the prince who entered, it was just Harry. For once, Myranda looked disappointed to see him.

  
“Randa fancies herself a prince,” Darlyne tittered.

  
Alayne froze, a closed-mouth smile stuck on her face. Myranda rolled her eyes but she didn’t deny it.

  
Of course, why wouldn’t Myranda try and get Jon? He is a prince after all. And she’s pretty, with great...assets, Alayne thought as she looked down at Myranda’s revealing gown.

  
“Nothing wrong with opening up your options,” Myranda casually remarked, nervously fluffing up her hair.

  
“Oh, you’ll open up something, I bet,” Enith snickered.

  
With that, that the girls all fell into a fit of giggles. The old Alayne would have blushed at a comment like that but now she only smiled.

  
The girls were too busy sniggering to realise that Harry was striding over towards them. And when he spoke, the girls went deadly silent, like they had just been told off by a mean septa.

  
“Alayne what are you doing here?” Harry demanded impatiently.

  
Alayne sneered, “waiting for the prince, Harold.”

  
“Well,” replying with the same tone, “you are supposed to be up there with me and your father.”

  
He pointed up at the dias.

  
She knew the girls were staring at her, and she felt the colour drain from her face. If she was up there, Jon would definitely recognise her.

  
“I wouldn’t want to offend the prince,”

Alayne claimed cooly, “it’s bad taste to present a bastard to royalty.”

  
Harry laughed.

  
“Jon Targaryen grew up as Jon Snow.”

Alayne cringed.

  
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a Stone in his presence.”

  
He continued, “Alayne, as my betrothed and the daughter of the Lord Protector, you have to be up there.”

  
Harry offered his hand and Alayne was pretty sure she heard either Enith or Darlyne whimper with jealousy.

  
She tried to think of more excuses, anything so she would have to be in plain sight. But nothing came to mind, the panic had made it completely blank.  
Consequently, Alayne has no choice but to reluctantly take his hand and proceeded up the steps.

  
Harry’s hands were strong but not particularly calloused. He did a lot of training but not a lot of actual fighting.  
She hated to admit it, but no one could deny that Harry was a very handsome man. He had the look of a knight from the stories; the blond-haired, blue-eyed, gallant hero that Alayne would have fawned over.

  
However, Alayne had learnt the hard way to never trust appearances. The good are not always beautiful and the beautiful aren’t always good. Harry was handsome but an aloof and arrogant womaniser.

Although, Harry wasn’t cruel or sadistic, he’s just a brat. As far as betrothals go, Alayne could do worse. I have had worse, she thought.

  
At the top of the dias, Harry spun her to face him.

  
“Alayne, you may be nervous to stand up here in front of everyone,” he began, “but there is no need to be afraid.”

  
Alayne was surprised, he is rarely sweet.  
“I like being in the background, Harry,” Alayne anxiously explained, “I’m not used to being up here in front of everyone.”

  
Harry grabbed her other hand, comfortingly, so he held both her hands in his. Alayne hoped he would be kind.  
“Just do what I do.”

  
Alayne nodded along to his every word.

  
“I remind myself, that I am superior to everyone here, in every way.”

  
Alayne blinked at him, a loss for words.  
This was so typical of Harry. Every time she thinks he’ll be nice, be the person she wants her betrothed to be, he ruins it by being such an utter arse.

  
Alayne scoffed. She turned her back to him and walked over to her father.

As she left, she heard Harry muttering to himself, “what did I say?”

  
Baelish was busy talking to a member of the Castle Guard when she came over.

  
“Sweetling, I’m sorry. I didn’t expect you to be up here but the Lords and Harry insisted.”

  
Alayne silently nodded but Petyr knew she was worried.

  
“Alayne, you have to trust me,” he whispered in her ear. His breath tickled, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

  
Alayne didn’t trust anyone really, not even her father. But what choice did she have? She had no one else.

  
“I trust you.”

  
Baelish smoothed over her hair, his hand lingering over her cheek. But he soon continued talking to the Castle Guard, leaving Alayne alone with her thoughts.

  
She had only minutes to gather herself and prepare for what was to come. Jon was going to see her, there’s no way he wouldn’t. And she ran a huge risk of him recognising her. And she honestly didn’t know what would happen if he did. She only hoped someone, anyone, would protect her....

  
Everything was moving too fast, and the Great Hall was far too loud for her to even try to relax. Instead she turned her attention to people-watching. She liked keeping quiet and observing- it gave her a strange sense of control.

  
Myranda, Darlyne and Enith were still chatting- probably about Jon.

The Vale Lords looked highly concerned. They were all gathered around, talking amongst themselves. Alayne understood why; history says that the Targaryens are trouble.

  
Harry disrupted her thoughts by calling her, “Alayne, Robin needs you.”

  
She sighed, but made her way over to the boy nonetheless.

  
Lord Robin Arryn was threatening to stomp off because he really did not want to meet the prince. And she’s the only one who could deal with him when he gets liked this.

  
Alayne crouched down to his level, looked him in the eye and softly said, “Robin, you must stay.”

  
“But I don’t want to! I don’t want to meet any Targaryen. Mother said that they are dangerous and not to be trusted.”

  
She had tried her hardest to undo all the bad things his mother engrained in him. She had to raise him well but it’s extra difficult with him than with other boys. He was ten years old now, and still acted younger than he was.

  
Alayne scowled. She looked over to her father, who by now had come over to see what was going on. They shared a quick knowing gaze before Alayne turned her attentions back to Robin.

  
“Robi-“ she began, but the boy began to wriggle. He was getting fed-up and impatient. Alayne only grabbed him by his sides and held him still.

  
“Robin, do you remember the heroes from the stories I tell you?”

  
The boy paused, obviously in deep thought. He slowly nodded.

  
“The heroes in the stories did heroic acts, not because they wanted to, but because they had to.

  
“Because it’s what honour demands.”

  
This got his attention.

  
“As high as honour,” he said under his breath.

  
“Yes, Robin Arryn. You are Lord of the Vale and you must do heroic acts, which includes being present here.”

  
“But Alayne, it’s boring... could I make the Targaryen fly?”

  
Harry snorted. Alayne ignored him.

  
“No Robin, the Targaryen can’t fly. This is important. All you need to do is sit here for a bit and let Uncle Petyr talk.”

  
“That’s it?” Sweetrobin asked suspiciously.

  
“That’s it.”

  
It took a while, but he nodded and sat back in the big chair.

  
Alayne let out a sigh in relief. Alayne began to fuss over the young Lord’s hair, smoothing his cow’s lick down and swatting the dust off his clothes. Robert became quickly annoyed with that so she kissed him on the cheek and left to join her father.

  
Before she did though, Harry grabbed her arm.

  
“Good one Alayne,” he purred, winking at her. She hated the way her insides instinctively flipped when he did that.  
Alayne quickly went over to her father so he wouldn’t see her blushing.

A young Ned Stark entered through the doors of the Eeyrie’s Great Hall, returning to the Vale after all this time. Alayne felt like she had been punched in the belly.

The sight of him made her eyes sting, she couldn’t bear to look at him. And what made it worse was she knew he was looking at her.

Her fears of being recognised soon disappeared, and was replaced unimaginable emotional pain.

  
Alayne couldn’t pay attention to the words her father said. Her ears filled up with white noise, like she was underwater. Why did she have to be up here? Why did she have to be in a place where she couldn’t slip away, where everyone could see her if she broke down? The gods just continued to play with her, even after all these years.

  
Every memory that she had repressed just came right back up to haunt her. She didn’t understand how something so simple could hurt so much.

  
And then he finally spoke. His voice alarmed her, it was a lot deeper and rougher than when she had last heard it, not to mention, she hadn’t heard a Northern accent in years.

  
Alayne felt compelled to look at him, even if it was to make sure it was Jon standing before her, not the late Ned Stark.

So she allowed herself one quick look, just a peak. She hadn’t expected him to look back, however.

  
The eye contact had whisked her back to another lifetime. It was a life with her father, her real father. When she was in Winterfell; with her mother and father, Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon and even Jon. That was the last time she was truly happy.

  
And then everything went wrong. She remembered her father, as the Hand of the King, escorting her to the tourneys and feasts she had begged him to go to. She remembered how he tucked her and Arya into bed at night. and tucking her and Arya into bed at night. And how he plead guilty to crime he didn’t commit, so her life could be spared.

  
Alayne couldn’t breathe.

  
Eddard Stark is not my father anymore, Alayne thought. And Jon is not my brother, he is the Targaryen prince.

She knew that if she could stare into his eyes and feel nothing, then she could control herself. Taking a deep breath, she gazed down at him.

  
The official meeting was over, and Jon looked up at her before he left for his rooms. Alayne stared into those Stark eyes that she always found so beautiful, and felt empty.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve read it, over and over and over to the point where I cannot read it anymore. The words have all merged into one and it’s nimbing my brain. So I decided to post it as it is, if there are mistakes then I’m really sorry.  
> Enjoy :) xx


	3. A Near-First Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is pensive as he gets ready for the Welcome Feast, whilst Alayne is worried that in close proximity, the Targaryen Prince will recognise her. Jon talks with the different factions in the Vale, taking in advice from all sides. But what Jon really wants to do is talk to Alayne, who is occupied with someone else...

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The feeling of dread slowly dripped into Jon’s system as he got ready for the feast. He didn’t want the attention or make small talk; and most of all, he did not want to dance.

Northerners did not dance at their feasts; they drank until they dropped, or until a fight broke out. And Jon preferred it that way, dancing just made him feel stupid. But as he learnt when he came to Kingslanding, Southerners are different. 

Daenerys forced him to learn, even going so far as to employ a dance teacher.

‘If you can dance with a sword, you can dance with a lady,’ she would recite with a knowing wink. 

Jon stopped what he was doing, for only thinking of Dany made his head ache. 

“Why has everything got to be so complicated?” he murmured to himself, rubbing his temples. 

He had to get her out his his mind. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be able to get anything done. In an attempt to distract himself, he put on his finery as quickly as he could. Tonight was about getting the Vale Lords on side, not dwelling on his mistakes...But she always managed to creep into his thoughts somehow. 

 

The best seamstresses and tailors in Kingslanding had worked hard on his dress-attire. Instead of his usual wool and leather, the finest Essosi silk had been sourced. 

Jon ached for the simplicity of his normal clothes but his had aunt insisted- no relative of hers would look anything less than luxurious. He despised the pomp, but wore it to appease her. 

Putting on his breeches, Jon’s mind wandered to the dark beauty from before. She had to be someone important to be standing next to Littlefinger on the dias. So Jon was hopeful that she would be at the feast tonight. 

She was a total enigma. He couldn’t help but be attracted to her in some way; he just couldn’t figure out why or how. Jon sighed, his fingers quickly lacing his black trousers. Now he knew he was being ridiculous, like like some green boy with a crush. 

He gazed upon the jerkin that laid upon his bed; the red dragon staring back up at him, with his three eyes of black sapphire. 

Jon’s whole life he yearned to wear a direwolf proudly on his chest. But it turned out he wasn’t a wolf at all. And that crushed him.

Underneath his jerkin he wore a black doublet, with red slashes on the sleeves, and silver threaded plaits on the shoulders. 

As he inspected himself in the looking glass, a wave of guilt came over him. He thought of his black brothers far away on the Wall. Pyp had to steal some stale bread and hard cheese to save his little sister from starvation, and was sent to the wall for it. 

And here he was, wearing expensive clothes that could feed his family for months. The winter was only going to get worse, and the dragon queen was too focused on securing her throne than helping her people. 

Jon was disgusted with himself for letting this happen. He was disgusted for letting many things happen...

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“You are so beautiful.” Petyr murmured, twirling a lock of her chestnut hair between his fingers. He missed the red hair, she knew it. Alayne missed her old hair too. 

Tonight, she wore her hair loose, letting it fall down her back. All whilst holding it down with her mockingbird pin, a symbol to let everyone know that she was Petyr’s.

“And you wore the dress I chose for you,” he said smugly, looking her up and down. 

“You look ravishing,” he smirked.

If she were to live peacefully in the Eeyrie. Alayne relied on her father’s judgment on these types of things, so she wore the dress her father chose. She would let him have control over her life if it meant that she was safe. 

The said dress was not one made for the occasion, but still fairly new. It was a white off-the-shoulder dress, with intricate patterns and embroidery in blue thread and ribbon. The sleeves were made of white silk, puffed out in a rudimentary style; and the skirts were slim, with little structure. The dress was contradictory- the shape and cut was for a woman, but somehow Alayne still felt like a doll. 

Her father leered at her, a hand on the small of her back. His warm breath tingled against her neck, giving her goosebumps. He consumed her with his eyes. 

Alayne looked down at her feet, and admitted with embarrassment, “Father, I’m afraid.”

She looked up to see him staring directly into her eyes. 

“What if he recognises me? I’ll be in closer proximity to him and he’ll hear my voice and then who would be there to protect m-.”

Petyr’s finger on her lips silenced her. 

“My dearest Alayne,” he stated, seizing her hands, “you are my daughter.  
“The Knights of the Vale would never let anything happen to you, I would never let anything happen to you.”

She looked at her feet again and murmured, “No one can protect anyone now the Dragon Lords are back.”

Petyr squeezed her hands causing her to look up at him again. 

“Alayne, why do you think we are still in the Eeyrie despite it being Winter? We should have evacuated to The Gates of the Moon by now but he haven’t. The Eeyrie is the safest place in Westeros and we shall remain here until the Targaryen threat is dealt with.” 

“Dealt with?...How can we deal with the Targaryen threat? They have three fully grown dragons, 100,000 Dothraki screamers and the Unsullied.” 

Her father perhaps regretted informing her on the Dragon Queen. Petyr paused. He was hiding something, it was obvious. 

“Alayne. There is always a way.” 

He sighed, dropping her hands and turning away from her.

“I’m hurt that you wouldn’t trust me to protect you,” he muttered.

“After all I’ve done for you.” His voice was getting louder. 

“After all I’ve done for you, Alayne. And you still do not trust me. I brought you here- when I did not have to!- and kept you safe.” 

He spun around, malice in his eyes, “Life has been good here for you has it not? I give you a pretty dresses! Jewellery! Friends! A family!”

“And this is the thanks I get?” He spat out his words, each like poison. 

Alayne felt flooded with guilt. “Father! I-“

He ignored the interjection, “And I’m marrying you to a man who would give you back Winterfell...” He shook his head.

“But if you don’t trust me, if you don’t appreciate how much danger I am putting myself in by helping you... how can I give that to you?” 

She knew she wasn’t Sansa Stark, she really did. Sansa Stark was dead. House Stark was dead. She was Alayne Stone, Petyr Baelish’s bastard. But when she heard Winterfell, something in her changed. She wanted it, craved it. She would do anything for it.

He was right. He was always right. After all Petyr has done for her, and this is how she treats him. How she neglects him, and mistreats him. She was ungrateful. She always was and always will be, and ungrateful, undeserving brat. 

She stepped forward, taking her father in her arms.

“Father, I’m so sorry! I do trust you, I do! And I know how much you have done for me. I would be dead if it weren’t for you.”

Alayne pulled away, looking at her father’s forlorn expression. 

“Everything I have, I owe to you.”

The thought of Winterfell came crawling back into her mind. 

Winterfell is what I owe him. 

“Petyr.” 

She leaned in, closing her eyes as she did. Petyr cupped her face in his hands, and their lips met. 

His hands wandered over her, like a groping hand in the darkness. As he pressed himself against her, she felt something hard up against her hips and she jumped back in shock. 

“Oh! I still need to fetch Robin!,” she exclaimed with a nervous smile. 

Her father let go of her, allowing her to make her way to the door. She wrapped her fingers round the doorknob and heard his triumphant voice from behind. 

“You are such a clever girl. My clever, beautiful girl.”

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Outside the Feasting Hall was a small party which included Littlefinger, Harold Hardying and the girl he still didn’t know the name of. He gave a quick glance in her direction, to see if she was looking at him. She wasn’t. She was talking to Harold. 

“Ah, Your Grace, we were just going to send for you,” Littlefinger said in a tone more than passive aggressive. 

Jon didn’t reply, he just gave an awkward, closed-mouth smile. He wasn’t going to apologise, not to him at least. 

Littlefinger looked slightly stumped at his silent reply but he carried on, “my daughter, Alayne, will enter with Harold.”

She was his daughter? Oh the gods do like playing with me, Jon thought resentfully. No one mentioned that Littlefinger had a daughter in his brief. Still, he had found out her name and who she is at least. He only wondered why the Lord Protector’s daughter wouldn’t enter with him. 

“So we have Lady Myranda Royce, grand daughter to Yohn Royce of Runestone, to accompany you on your formal entrance.” 

Littlefinger stood to the right, and signalled Myranda to approach. Myranda, who was busy chatting with Alayne and Harry, came towards him.

Myranda was small but buxom, with full curly brown hair, and cocoa coloured eyes to match. The cut of her gown was deep, showing off her assets in a way that would send Tormund’s tongue wagging. 

Her name rang a bell though. Someone must have mentioned her before they arrived...no, Jon thought, she can’t be the one who all the men were laughing about. The one who’s husband died whilst they were...oh yes, Tormund would like her very much. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace,” Myranda curtsied, giving Jon full view down her dress. His eyes darted away, averting his gaze to the true craftsmanship of the castle’s blue vaulted ceilings. 

“Likewise, Lady Royce.” Jon bowed in return, now looking at his feet as he did. 

He didn’t know what else to say or do. A long-forgotten memory entered his mind, he remembered something his cousin always said, “Myranda’s a pretty name.” 

She blushed prettily and looked at him through her eyelashes before she murmured, “Thank you, Your Grace.” 

Over her shoulder, he saw Alayne staring at him, her face white like she had seen a ghost. 

“Perfect! Now you are introduced, we’ll welcome you into the hall,” Littlefinger commanded, snapping his fingers as he went. Alayne’s reacted immediately, obediently following the orders of her father. 

Jon gingerly put his arm out for Myranda, which she eagerly took. They entered in a procession; Littlefinger and Robin; Harold with Alayne and Jon with Myranda. 

Jon felt as though all eyes were on him, judging. Each Vale family were grouped together on long dining tables, with serving girls dotted around the room. A band was tucked into the corner- there was no way he was getting out of dancing now.

Myranda helped guide him to his seat at the top table, which faced the room and the guests. Robert was sat in the middle, with Alayne to his right, then Harry to her right. To Robert’s left was Littlefinger, then Jon, and next to him, sat Myranda. The Royce’s were very happy that Myranda was sat next to the prince, so Jon made sure to avoid meeting their beady eyes. 

Jon looked over to his men. They were sat, seemingly comfortably, as they poured generous amounts of wine into their cups. Jon locked eyes with Ser Davos, who wearily nodded to him, rolling his eyes at the young men. Jon smirked in reply. 

Lord Robin had obviously been told what to say, opened the feast. 

“Today, we welcomed guests into the Eeyrie. Tonight, we welcome friends to our table.” 

The boy raised his glass. 

“To Jon Targaryen,” he shouted eagerly. 

The room recited his name back, and gulped down their drinks. Jon hoped that with a couple of drinks in everyone’s bellies, the tension would be eased. He also hoped that the alcohol wouldn’t make anything worse. 

Alayne snatched the cup from Robin’s hands after he took tried to gulp the whole goblet down. 

“I said only a little bit of wine, Robin,” she whispered to the boy. He rolled his eyes but didn’t start up a fuss in front of everyone. 

The first course soon came out, with serving girls carrying multiple plates of food in each arm. But Jon couldn’t help but subtly watch Alayne with intrigue. 

Littlefinger’s only marriage was to Lady Lysa Arryn, but she is much to old to have been a product of that recent marriage. Jon realised that she was Littlefinger’s bastard. 

It shocked him, not because she had all the graces and courtesy of a proper lady, but because she was so accepted. Jon thought about all the times he had to distance himself from the Starks. He was never allowed to be associated with them, especially in front of guests. It’s bad taste to wave a bastard around. 

And yet here she sat; at the top table; next to her father, wearing his sigil. He wasn’t insulted by her presence, it was just a strange concept to him. A lump formed in Jon’s throat that he struggled to swallow down. 

 

It was Myranda Royce who disrupted his thoughts, and made him look away from Alayne. She was inquiring after his life in Kingslanding, only she spoke so much that Jon could only give one word replies. She dominated the conversation to the point that Jon just scoffed his meal down, giving only curt smiles and nods as a reply to her ramblings. 

The first course was a feast of the fruits of the sea; including a selection of pan-fried fish, steamed muscles; as well as boiled crab, lobster and raw oysters. 

“Did you know that oysters are an aphrodisiac?” Myranda purred. She took one in hand, and swallowed it down in one; not breaking eye contact as she did.

Jon nearly choked on his fish. He sworn he could have heard laughter coming from Alayne’s direction.

“No, I didn’t, my Lady.” Jon managed to reply. 

“Try one, your grace.” She offered with one in hand, putting it to his lips. 

He politely refused, trying to distract her with talking again- inquiring about her this time. 

The first course was soon finished, and Robin was wanting to go to bed. Alayne whispered something in her father’s ear, and he nodded in approval. She grabbed the boys hand and took him away, a huge guard following behind them. Jon hoped she would return. 

The new course was poultry; pheasant, squab and fowls came out of the kitchen Jon knew that they have more birds in the Vale than cattle. For the first time this evening, Littlefinger turned to him and began to talk. Myranda quickly went quiet. 

“Prince Jon, I apologise for not engaging in a conversation with you sooner. It was very rude of me, you are our guest and we want you to feel welcome.”

Jon didn’t care. He didn’t want to talk to the man, even if it was impolite to. Jon didn’t look at him as he replied, “I did not take offence my lord.” 

Jon took a swig of beer, not knowing how to continue, “you have been very busy with welcoming me. I greatly appreciate the effort made in doing so.” 

“Oh thank you my lord.” Littlefinger said, almost sarcastically, “I’m glad our efforts haven’t gone unnoticed.” 

Jon could feel Baelish edging closer. 

“It’s an honour for you to bestow us with your presence, a prince in our midst is something we are not used to.” 

There was a brief pause. 

“It’s an honour being here, the Vale is a beautiful place.” 

“I hope the people are as beautiful,” Littlefinger joked, gesturing to Myranda. Jon looked at the door Alayne left through. 

Turning to face him, with a false smile, Jon joked back, “Of course my lord.” 

But he couldn’t bring himself to laugh.

Littlefingers closed mouth smile soon disappeared. It’s as if, in and instant, he became a different person. 

“Your Grace,” Baelish whispered, coming closer.

“I was a family friend, I grew up with your aunt, the late Lady Catelyn Tully.” The small man paused, as of saying her name hurt him. 

Jon just stared at him, unblinking. He knew that Baelish was obsessed with Lady Catelyn. It was an uncomfortable moment. 

“Stark.” Jon corrected. The woman never liked him but she deserved some respect. Baelish didn’t say anything, only just giving a strained smile. But in his eyes, Jon saw anger. The type of rage Baelish rarely expresses in public. 

Eventually, Littlefinger continued, his voice full of sincerity, “I want you to know, Prince Jon, that you can trust me.” 

Jon stifled a laugh. Littlefinger obviously thought him a Northern fool. 

“Thank you, Lord Baelish.” Jon managed to muster without laughing, only a smile on his face. 

“In your talks tomorrow, I will help you the best I can. I want peace more than anyone. I want the best solution for everyone.” Littlefinger recited, as if he had practised a thousand times. 

“I know what will happen if we refuse.”   
Baelish plainly said. 

Jon’s smile vanished. He put down his knife and fork, pausing to hear Littlefinger talk. 

“I have heard tales of your aunts escapades in Essos. She’s been named the Sacker of Cities, Queen of the Ashes, Aegon the Conqueror born again...she holds incredible power. 

Jon turned to face him, assuredly saying, “My lord, know that I would never let that happen.” 

But really Jon didn’t know that he could, especially under Daenerys current state of mind. It took everything in him to convince her not to burn Kingslanding to the ground when she took it from Cersei.

Littlefinger looked Jon in the eye, cooly replying, “I know that, your grace. It’s everyone else you need to convince.” 

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The old Alayne would have been very excited at the thought of a feast with a prince in attendance. Not only that, but it was a feast with dancing too. She would have leapt at the chance. 

And truth be told, a part of Alayne yearned to dance. To dance with someone like Harry, have him hold her and tell her that everything was going to be alright. But that’s not going to happen, Alayne knew. Jon is here, so everything is not alright, and Harry’s an arsehole. 

Instead, Alayne sat back and watched as one by one, couples entered the floor. Myranda was dancing with some random knight, who obviously wanted some late night action. 

Alayne has to laugh, Jon entered with Myranda but still didn’t want to dance with her. That’s the Jon she knew. 

She also knew a Jon who listened to his young cousin’s advice to always tell girls that their names are pretty. 

She grabbed her goblet, discretely sipping more and more wine until it was all gone. 

Harry was tapping his fingers intermittently on the table. Alayne had previously noticed that he does this when nervous. She was surprised that he wasn’t already wooing some poor girl, or drinking with his friends.

“Alayne...Alayne, will you have this dance?”

He wanted to ask her. He was actually nervous to ask her to dance, and not as a joke. She didn’t know whether to be confused or flattered.

Ultimately. it was last the four goblets of wine that answered. She turned to face him, putting her hand on his. 

“Yes.” 

Alayne liked the way one could see Harry’s dimples when he grinned at her. He was so handsome sometimes, Alayne couldn’t stand it. But truly she hated herself for, after a few drinks, how much she wanted to kiss him. 

Hand in hand, Harry led Alayne to the dance floor. Everyone was looking at them, they all wanted to see who Harold Hardying was dancing with. It made her feel like she was on exhibition: Alayne Stone, The Lucky Bastard (quite literally).

She wondered what Harry wanted; why he was being such a gentlemen. If he thought that by being sweet to her would get her to warm his bed tonight, then he is mistaken. She told him time and time again that she will not be another notch in his bedpost. Although they were betrothed; she was determined to wait, even if sometimes she secretly wants him just as much as he wants her. 

Alayne recognised the song that began to play. The song was quick, with complex moves intended to catch you out.

Despite having not danced for a long time, and being quite drunk- Alayne was a skilled dancer. And she picked up the moves easily. 

The current song starts off slow, with the couples close together. As it continues, the tempo only gets quicker until it becomes very hard to keep up.

It didn’t take a genius to know that Harry liked to be near to her. Harry liked being close to any woman, his height advantage usually meant he could easily look down their dress. 

But also, Mya overheard Harry say he liked the smell of Alayne’s perfume. And of course, Mya relayed that information to her- bastards do stick together after all. 

It was Harry who put the first foot wrong. He was far too bulky and heavy-handed to be able to dance to such a tricky song. He went bright red, and Alayne only smiled. It was surprisingly endearing.

She loved to dance, and so she wanted to enjoy it. She wanted to forget about all her worries; her father, Robin and Jon. 

As the beat got faster and faster, Harry’s footwork was only getting worse. Soon the dance floor filled with laughter and everyone was going wrong. It was infectious and she joined in too, at Harry’s expense.

As he tried to make up for his previous mistakes, Harry exaggerated his next steps and tripped up on his feet. Alayne squealed. She was forced to catch and hold him up. He was as heavy as he looked. 

It was then she heard Harry snort. She hadn’t heard Harry every laugh at himself before. Alayne liked the way it sounded. 

“How are you so perfect?” He asked, a grin on his face. She paused for a brief moment, stunned at what had slipped out. But she didn’t read too deep into it. 

Harry had noticed it too, and re-worded it, “H-how can you keep up?”

Alayne shrugged with a casually smug demeanour, “Practise.”

The dance culminated in Harry nearly toppling Alayne over this time. She clinged to his arms, terrified of falling backwards. The music officially ended, the couples around them began to part ways but Alayne was still in Harry’s arms. She looked up at him, and there was a short moment of silence before they both burst in fits of giggles. 

“Miss Stone.” Harry murmured, a huge smile on his face. 

Alayne let go of his arms and stepped back. “ My lord.” Alayne replied with a curtsy.

Harry took her back to her seat at the top table. He began to leave, but stopped in his tracks. This led Alayne to believe he was going to say something. Harry opened his mouth but then closed it. He settled on a dazzling smile, bowed and continued to walk away. 

Although she wanted to know what he would she said, it didn’t bother her too much. Harry wasn’t a man of many words. The exercise of dancing felt like a rush. She was breathless and sweaty, and gulped down wine to moisten her throat. 

Harry had done his job. His pretty face had made her forget her troubles, at least for a short time. She had totally forgot that Jon was even there. 

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╔═════☩══♛══☩═════╗

Just one dance, Jon, he told himself. Just one dance and you can sit out the rest. The music had only just begun to play and the dance floor was already crowded.

Only when surrounded by strangers, in an unknown room, did Jon really realise how much he missed his white wolf. He was forced to leave Ghost behind, his aunt insisted that it wouldn’t encourage trust between the two parties. She was right, everywhere Ghost goes, he terrifies people but that didn’t help Jon. The wolf was a part of him, and he resented having to leave him in the hell that was Kingslanding. 

Every now and then Myranda coughed or sighed loudly; very obviously trying to catch Jon’s attention but he was distracted. He was sat watching Alayne out of the corner of his eye. She sat next to Harold in silence, delicately sipped her wine as she watched the room. 

Jon didn’t even notice when Myranda had accepted the offer for a dance with some knight he didn’t know the name of. It was only when he noticed the lack of noise coming from her direction did he look across the Hall for her. He was glad to find her on the dance floor- it meant that he didn’t have to dance with her.

It was Jon’s boyish insecurity that kept him in his seat. He wouldn’t know how to strike up a natural conversation, and even if he did, he was hopeless at flirting. With Ygritte, she didn’t care for romantic talk; she preferred Jon’s easy banter. And with Dany... 

You are a prince, he told himself, and she is a girl, just ask her.

He turned to face her, his hands wrapped around the arms of the chair, ready to push himself from his seat. He was thankful that he hadn’t got up when he saw Alayne’s hand in Harry’s. To his further surprise, the two were making their way to the floor together.

He felt like Jon Snow all over again; the familiar feeling of inadequacy had returned. Instead of watching Robb seduce every girl he wanted but could never have, it was the notorious womaniser, Harold Hardying. 

That should be me down there, Jon chastised himself. 

“Your Grace,” said a gruff voice from behind. Jon peeked over his shoulder to see where the voice came from, and saw the silhouettes of four men. He stood up to greet them, surprised to see that the men he was faced with were four Lords of the Vale. 

“Your Grace, if I may, I am Lord Yohn Royce of Runstone,” spoke the man with the gruff voice. Yohn’s face was lined with wrinkles, caused by his almost permanent scowl. Although the greying man was getting older, he was as tall as a great oak- and he even had the body to match. The Lord bowed as low as his barrel chest would allow, and the three men with him followed suit. 

Lord Royce introduced his entourage, indicating to each man as he did. 

 

“I have the honour of introducing you to Lord Uthor Tollett of Grey Glen, Lord Damon Shett of Gull tower. And this is Royce Coldwater of Coldwater Burn,” 

Jon nodded, “it is a pleasure to meet you, my Lords.”

The ends of Yohn’s lips upturned, into an almost smile- it looked so unnatural on such a disapproving face. The Lord gestured towards the two seats in front of them, Jon sat back in his and Royce in Myranda’s. Jon suddenly felt all nervous, like he about to be scolded as a child by his father. He didn’t know what to say, and he didn’t know what these Lords were going to say either.

“Prince Jon.” He groaned as squeezed himself into the chair.   
“These men are my loyal bannermen. We are descended from the First Men, their blood runs through our veins. They run through yours too.” 

Jon nodded along, but didn’t follow. 

“I knew your uncle Eddard Stark.” Yohn recalled. Jon swallowed. 

“He was raised right here,” Yohn said, looking about the room as he did, “ he and Robert used to run about these halls, up to mischief mostly. Although, he was the responsible one, always making up for Robert’s mistakes. Always taking the blame for Robert’s bad choices. It was an honour to fight by his side. He was one of the most honourable men I every knew. And he died for it.” 

Jon looked down at his hands, his eyes feeling glassy. 

“It would be a shame to fight against Ned Stark’s kin. We will try to come to a solution, I’m positive something will come without any conflict,” Yohn whispered. 

Jon looked up at the men and they all nodded in a consensus. 

“Thank you, my Lords, I’m glad to hear it. I do not wish to fight, neither does my aunt.” Jon muttered, moving about in his chair uncomfortably when mentioning Dany. 

Yohn didn’t move, an odd smile beginning to show on his face. Jon knew that wanted to talk more. Yohn’s smile turned strained, and awkward, as though he was thinking of what to say. 

“Jon Targaryen, may I give you some advice for negotiations tomorrow?” Royce questioned with only some hesitation. 

Jon nodded eagerly. He needed any advice he could get. Old Bronze Yohn leaned in closer, the chair creaking under his weight as he did. 

“Do not trust Petyr Baelish. He’s a liar and a cheat. He will do anything to get ahead, and anything he does to ‘help’ you is for his benefit only. His very presence in the Eeyrie brings dishonour on the Vale. But Lord Arryn is very ill and relies on him.”

Jon began,” I have heard rumours of the man in Kingslanding. Trust me Lord Royce, I will never trust the man...but what if his daughter?” Jon asked as innocently as he could. 

Yohn looked over to the dancing girl, a conflicted look appeared on his face. Jon only looked at Yohn, watching intently at his reaction. 

“The girl...she is as intelligent as her father, and perhaps as cunning,” Yohn began, “but I see no malice within her. She is a close friend of my grand daughter, Myranda, and Myranda won’t hear a bad word said about her. And she’s like a mother to Lord Robin Arryn, she’s ever dutiful. We think she favours her mother more than her father when it comes to her temperament.” 

Jon looked down at the ground, only for a moment, but allowed a faint smile flash across his face. 

If Yohn noticed, he didn’t say anything. 

Jon desperately tried to change the conversation. 

“Lord Royce, did you say that this man is Lord Tollett,” Jon asked, gesturing towards the lanky, hook nosed man. 

The said man nodded, but looked confused. 

“I know a relation if yours, far away on the Wall. He was a brother of mine. His name is Eddison, Eddison Tollett.”

Lord Tollett didn’t seem like he’d heard of him before and slowly replied, “I haven’t heard his name, but I am a proud that a relation of mine is fighting to protect the realm, especially as he was under the command of a man such like yourself.”

“He’s Lord commander now,” Jon corrected. 

The man positively beamed, “I’m glad to hear that a member of Tollett family are protecting the realms of men under the honourable Night’s Watch.”

Jon nodded, a faint smile upon his lips. If he only knew what the nights watch was really like, Jon thought. 

“My son Waymar...” Yohn said, his voice cracking when he said it, “he was a black brother.”

The large old man looked down at his hands, and coughed loudly. Jon didn’t want to go interrupt his moment. 

It wasn’t long before he found himself again and whispered, “As long as I stand, the Vale will always stand with the blood of the first men, the Starks. You are the last survivor of Stark blood. You have more friends in the Vale than you think.”

Yohn stood up, his chest looming over Jon. Jon stood up to match him, he held his hand open to shake his hand. 

Lord Royce took it, and pulled Jon forward with one swift movement.

“Watch yourself. Watch what you do, who you talk to. Watch where you go and what you say. That vicious little man has eyes and ears all over the place. He’s turned the Vale into a pit of snakes like Kingslanding.” 

Yohn took in a deep breath, not letting Jon go. He looked Jon in the eye, unblinking for a while and said, “Expect the worst with Littlefinger.” 

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╔═════☩══♛══☩═════╗

She didn’t dance with anyone else as it was only when she sat down did she start to feel the alcohol’s effect. She truly was squiffy. And this was dangerous territory to be in. Her father told her to never get drunk, that it lowers your inhibitions and reactions: it leaves you vulnerable. 

So she kindly rejected the offers of knights and Lords, she wanted to wait out this feeling. Jon still sat at the top table, having not moved all night. He wouldn’t ask her to dance; Jon does not dance. And she doubted he would talk to her. So she sat better in her seat knowing that she was going to be unbothered by him.

They sat in silence for a while. Alayne was people-watching again: her father was whispering in ears and every so often monitoring her movements. Harry sat on the table with his friends, loudly drinking and talking. And Myranda hasn’t stopped dancing and chatting to knights all night. She gave a thought to Mya, who was probably outside in the cold, drinking with the stable hands. 

Jon got out of his seat. She breathed a sigh of relief. So he’s decided to call it a night, she thought. But Jon didn’t walk away from her, only towards her. 

Alayne pretended as if nothing was happening. He stopped right next to her and coughed to get her attention. For gods sake Jon, Alayne thought.

She had no choice but to turn to face him; the three-headed dragon was proudly decorated on his chest. Something within Alayne hurt. Don’t be silly Alayne, it’s just a dragon, she thought. 

But that wasn’t it. She knew it wasn’t. It felt weird seeing Jon wearing a dragon before he would wear a direwolf. It felt wrong. And it hurt because it meant that he chose his Targaryen side, over his Stark heritage. 

He chose Rhaegar over Ned Stark; the man who raised him. The man who loved him, instilled his own values in him. For heavens sake, he looked more like Ned than Robb did. 

And she found that that’s what hurt her. 

She knew it was foolish to be sympathetic towards the Starks. But if she needed any confrontation that Jon wanted to separate himself from his Stark heritage, this was it. 

“Miss Stone, would you do me the honour of the next dance.”

Alayne held her breath as to not let out a groan. Why, oh why, did she have to dance with Harry? It only gave Jon the optimism and confidence to ask her to dance. 

She didn’t know this Jon. She didn’t know this man who asked women to dance or wore such finery.

The alcohol had made her brain feel fried, and she was struggling to find an excuse as she only fell deeper into Jon’s eyes. 

“Your grace, I appreciate the gesture and I am flattered...” 

She looked around for any sort of inspiration to make up and excuse. That’s when she saw Harry crudely downing his goblet as his friends egged him on. 

“...but I don’t think Harry would like me dancing with another man,” she answered with a modest smile. 

He chuckled, “I’m sure your Harold wouldn’t mind you dancing with the Eeyrie’s honoured guest. Besides I thought Southern girls jump at any opportunity to dance?” 

Jon was trying to be playful but Alayne wasn’t in the mood. Alayne thought of how Harry’s would react if he saw her dancing with Jon. His reaction would be almost be worth it. But she wanted to go to bed. Her head ached and she was positive that if she did dance, she would vomit all over the said Eeyrie’s honoured guest. 

“Prince or not, Harry is protective. He’s the best fighter in the Vale, you know, and I would hate it if a silly argument started over a dance.” 

“I do not fear Harold, Miss Stone. I’ve fought many a foe worse than an entitled Lord...” he slurred, his eyes hazy and unfocused.

“And my dear, fighting for a dance with you is far from silly in my eyes.”

She cracked a laugh. Was he drunk? She had never seen a drunk Jon before and she didn’t know what to say to him. Jon continued regardless, as if her laugh only spurred him on. 

“Lord Hardying has been dancing with many girls, other than yourself, all night. So why should he be so annoyed that you might dance with another man?” 

She almost wanted to roll her eyes at him. Wasn’t it obvious? 

“Because, Prince Jon, men do not like it when they feel emasculated. And they definitely do not like it when aTargaryen princes dances with their betrothed.”

Jon’s boyish smile vanished in an instant and he looked disappointed. She guessed that he hadn’t asked a girl to dance with him before. Suddenly, all his years stripped away. She was sat across from the old Jon, the boy she used to know. The moody boy who sulked all the time, who just watched from a distance. 

“There are many women here would who fight to death for a chance to dance with such a worthy partner as your-“

“B-betrothed?” Jon interrupted. 

Alayne slowly got out of her seat with caution. The night was beginning to hit her badly, and she was beginning to lose her balance. 

“Yes, Your Grace, my betrothed,” she sighed. 

She now stood opposite Jon, and she smoothed down her skirts. 

“I am awfully sorry, Your Grace. The wine has gone to my head. If you would excuse me.” She avoided eye contact. Alayne curtsied and made her way to leave. 

Jon grabbed her hand, not to pull her towards him but to get her attention. 

She turned around and looked down at her hand in his. His hand was rough and calloused, and bony like they always were.

The grip wasn’t strong enough to hurt, and Jon was moving his thumb softly over her wrist. He then asked the question that Alayne had feared the most. 

“Miss Stone, I cant help but get the feeling that we’ve met before.”

Her mouth started to dry up, and she consciously became aware of how sweaty her palms were getting. Rationally speaking, she had nothing to fear. But nothing about tonight was rational. 

Her voice only slightly faltered in her reply, “I was born and raised in Gull Town, and I’ve never left the Vale. I very much doubt that we’ve met.” 

His eyes squinted at her, as though he were trying to figure her out. She looked own at her feet, trying to obscure her face. 

“I may remind you of another, though. Bastards like myself are very common and we are all similar around these parts.” Her reply was slicker than before. She was relieved, lying to him was becoming easier and easier by the word. 

“I was a bastard too until recently,” Jon murmured, but his voice had no tone of shame or embarrassment. 

A knot twisted in Alaynes gut. She lifted her head up, but didn’t meet his eye. 

She nodded. 

“I am aware of your situation. I’m glad that your story had a happy ending,” she said, a bit too bitterly. 

“You think this is my happy ending?” He asked with a laugh.

Alayne’s eyes darted to meet his. It seemed for the first time did she really notice the pain that seemed to hide underneath them. 

She at a loss for words and she furrowed her brow. This wasn’t his happy ending? 

Alayne heard Harry’s voice from behind, “What do you think you’re doing, Targaryen? Get your hands off her!” 

He didn’t shout, but the aggression in his voice was more than implied. Alayne turned her head around and saw Harry a couple steps behind her, with fire in his eyes. Harry took a step forward, so now he was stood adjacent to Jon. Perhaps it were her hearing but she thought she heard the music getting louder. 

Jon immediately let go and held his hands up.

 

“Harry he wasn’t hurting me we were just talking,” Alayne assured him. She moved closer to Harry, facing him directly and trying to force him away from Jon. If a fight broke out, an alliance could be over before any talks began. Harry stank of beer, and she knew he was glaring at Jon from over her shoulder. 

Alayne went on her tip-toes, whispering in Harold’s ear, “nothing was going on, I promise. He was introducing himself, that’s all.” 

Alayne faces Jon, her eyes pleading with him to say no more. She felt Harry’s hand on her shoulder protectively. 

“Thank you for your kind introduction, your grace,” she anxiously grinned, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. Now, I must be going to my rooms.” 

She practically barged past Harry, wanting to leave the Hall as quick as possible. She had never felt so humiliated in all her life. Even if people couldn’t hear the conflict, she knew that they had watched. She refused to look back or even check in with her father. All she wanted to do was lie down, wait out this headache and forget that this ever happened. 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Sorry for how long this took, Ive had a lot going on. Regardless, here it is! Thank you for being so patient and THANK YOU for the kudos and kind words. I even adore the criticism, all criticism is constructive and helps be create the perfect story. If it’s hard to read again then please let me know, I’m still getting used to writing full stop. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed ladies, gentlemen and everything in between.


	4. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne discusses last night’s feast with Mya.

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“So what’s he like?” Mya eagerly asked through panted breaths.

She had a right grilling from her father over last nights events. So as soon as Alayne had finished her breakfast, she came straight down to Mya. Her father would be in talks with Jon all day, and she had free time before she had to attend to Robin. She was dying to see her friend, who she hadn’t seen in such a long time.

Mya was mucking out the stables, and despite the winter weather, she only wore a loose fitting shirt. The exercise kept her warm enough. The wind was biting at Alayne’s face, despite her cloak that was wrapped around her tight. At least the sun shone brightly; rays of light streamed through small holes in the thatched roof.

Luckily, Alayne enjoyed the cold; it was as though she didn’t feel it as much as others did. She leisurely rested against the door frame, not wanting to get donkey muck on her shoes or hem of her dress.

“He’s...” Alayne pondered, looking around her for inspiration but finally landing at her hands.

She picked at her pristine nails continuing with her last sentiment, “he’s...”

Who is he? Truly, she did not know.

“Heart-breakingly handsome?” Mya finished for her.

Alayne looked up as quick as lightning with wide eyes, ready to chastise the now grinning girl.

“Mya!” She practically squealed.

“What?” Mya unashamedly replied. She ceased on scooping the dung, now leaning on the upright fork with an elbow.

“Oh don’t act all innocent, you know it’s true. It was all I could think about when I was leading him up on the mountain Well...that and you know, not wanting anyone to fall and die.”

Alayne reluctantly allowed herself a small smile, which grew into a wide grin.

“Alright! He is gorgeous!” Alayne stated.

She hated to admit it but he was. And not in a perfect, story-hero way. He was a real man, rugged and rough but just like the men she grew up with. He was a Northerner through and through- no matter who his father really is.

“He’s brave too! He didn’t cower over the journey one bit,” Mya informed her, the admiration clear in her voice.

“And, he’s brave enough to fight Harry for you,” she said, wiping the sweat from her brow with her forearm.

Alayne’s brow furrowed. “How did you hear about that?” She interrogated.

Mya only tapped her nose, and gave Alayne a wink.

Alayne rolled her eyes and gave a loud sigh. Of course she found out, Alayne thought. She knows all the Eeyrie’s secrets.

“It wasn’t a fight,” Alayne cooly corrected, “Harry just thought it was something that it wasn’t.” Her eyebrows lifted as she smoothed over the truth.

“And what was it?” Mya asked with confusion.

Alayne bit her lip. She debated with herself whether to reveal the truth. She did trust Mya enough, for now anyway.

“he...” she mumbled, reverting her gaze, “he asked me to dance with him.”

“He what?” She said flatly, slowly blinking as she did.

“Don’t tell anyone!” Alayne’s hands frantic as she tried to diffuse the situation.

“I refused anyway!” She said hurriedly but it only made things worse. Mya suppressed a scream, which resulted in a high-pitched whine.

“A real-life Northman, the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, asked you to dance...and you said no?!? You stupid bastard! Why? Why would you do that? I know you have a soft spot for Harry but Jon is a handsome prince, fuck Harry!” Mya whispered, presumably this was her trying to hold in screaming at her.

Alayne took in a deep breath, looking up at he holey roof as she did.

“I don’t want a prince, Mya,” Alayne began. Mya made an exasperated noise in reply.

“And didn’t want to dance with him because you know what it means, what it could lead onto.”

Mya rolled her eyes.

“Oh and you would rather choose from the selection of dashing men in the Eeyrie,” Mya asked, the question soaked in sarcasm as she indicated over to Harry’s friendship group on the other side of the small training yard.

Harry’s group were without their leader today, for Harry was in the talks with Jon. The boys were left to their own devices. Garrett and Miles were on the floor wrestling; Miles was on top of Garrett, rubbing his arse in his face. Ernauld was watching on and laughing hysterically, so much so, he was on the floor, snot running down his face.

Next to them were Willet and Aylard, giggling but repeatedly crying out in pain as they continuously hit each other with blunted swords. They were playing a stupid game were they determine who has the highest pain tolerance. Her eyes were squinted as she looked on, her nose turned up in disgust.

Alayne turned back to Mya, who was making the same face as she, and scoffed.

“Oh and you would know all about that wouldn’t you, Mya? May I remind you of your night of passion with Miles...?”

“Hey!” Mya yelled.

“That’s low! I was very, very drunk.” She whispered. She closed her eyes before a shiver ran down her body.

“Fine. But there’s the questions and the staring...ugh, I don’t want that.” Alayne cringed at the thought.

Mya gave a snort and shook her head.

“Alayne, you are the most beautiful woman in the Eeyrie. You get looks regardless.” She said so as if it was painfully obvious.

The notion made Alayne blush, however. She used to adore being beautiful but over time, Alayne found her beauty to be a curse, really.

She bit the inside of her cheek, the cheeky smiles from before slowly fading.

“My father wouldn’t like it,” she murmured.

Mya didn’t reply. Alayne looked down at the stray hay on the ground, pushing around loose piece with her foot. She tried to focus on it, to take the attention away from the awakened silence.

Mya didn’t have to say anything, Alayne knew she didn’t like her father. Last year she expressed her true feelings, and didn’t hold back. She hated the way he controlled his daughter. The truth almost ruined their friendship. So they vowed to never speak of it again, to save their relationship. Alayne didn’t want to lose her friend, she couldn’t face losing anyone else.

“Alayne!” A voice which distinctly sounded like Aylard’s came from behind her, from across the yard. Alayne jumped out of her skin, swearing under her breath as she did. She made eye contact with Mya, whose own eyes were open wide. The girl quickly got back to mucking out the stable, keeping her head down. Alayne closed her eyes, breathed in and turned around on her heel.

“Aylard.” Alayne yelled back, wanting the conversation to end. She hated speaking to Harry’s friends; they weren’t the best conversationalists.

To her dismay, Aylard was coming over towards her, sword still in his hand. Willet was following after him.

“How are you today?” he asked.

“I hope you didn’t drink too much last night.” He chuckled. Alayne gave a closed-mouth smile back.

Aylard was trying his best to be like Harry, but it wasn’t working. Instead of being naturally charming, it just sounded awfully rehearsed.

“I feel fine,” Alayne said sweetly, placing her hands behind her back, “I hope you feel the same, I think I recall you lads all drinking beer as if it were going out of style.”

The boys both sniggered, looking at each other as they did.

“We men are able to drink more than women,” Willet added.

“Yes, I’ve heard.” She said curtly.

“Is there any reason why you’ve called my attention or is it purely for my pleasure?” Alayne continued, growing impatient.

“What was really going on with you and the Targaryen last night? Harry is still pissed, he didn’t want to see him at all today.”

Alayne sighed, taking a deep breath before she replied.

“Last night’s events is between Harry and I. All everyone needs to know is that it was nothing. Harry merely overreacted.”

Aylard crossed his arms, a smirk forming on his smug face.

“Of course he overacted,” Aylard said, stepping forward.

“I don’t blame him for being overprotective. I too would be if my beautiful woman were being grabbed by another man in public like that.”

“I’m not his woman.” Alayne snarled. The boys froze, obviously shocked at her fierce response. She could even hear Mya come to a halt.

She subtly rubbed her temples, running her hands through her hair to disguise it.

“I only meant that I am my own person, I don’t belong to anyone,” she corrected.

“Ha! Tell Harry that, he almost beats up anyone who merely speaks your name,” Aylard guffawed.

Alayne was taken a back. She didn’t know how to feel about that information. She didn’t know that Harry felt that deeply over her. He must like her if he is more than gentlemanly protective. There was a feeling of her tummy that she didn’t know whether she liked or not. Regardless, it made her feel sick.

“This is a lovely chat boys but I think the repercussions of last night are finally hitting me.” She tried to say as casually as she could. But anxiety was starting to build up. Jon’s presence and now Harry’s true feelings beginning to unravel was just too much.

Aylard chortled.

“Would you like me to get you to the Maester?” Willet asked, genuine concern on his face. She knew Willet to be kind and his intentions often always pure. She always wondered how him and Harry were friends.

“No thank you, Willet. I’ll survive, I just need some rest that’s all.” She smiled sincerely at him.

“Rest up, Alayne. I’m sure Harry will want to talk to you later,” Aylard said.

“I look forward to it,” Alayne said flatly, raising her eyebrows.

She turned her head to face Mya, trying to articulate a thousand words through her eyes at her.

“Bye Mya, I’ll talk to you later.”

She looked back at the two boys, with a closed-mouth smile.

“Aylard. Willet.”

She gave a curtsy to both of them and quickly walked off. She refrained from looking behind her.

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short little chapter that I wanted to add just as a little detail. It was easy to write and pretty quick so I decided to add some sort of content. Anyway I feel like it’s a deleted scene from a movie that of added or took away it doesn’t add anything, but it’s fun to watch anyway. That’s a really weird analogy but I hope it makes sense. Here you are x love all the comments and the love x


	5. The Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon discusses alliances with the Vale Lords. Will it all go to plan? Or will it all fall apart?

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Sat around the biggest table Jon had ever seen were the thirty-five Vale Lords; each with an advisor squeezed in between or sat just behind them. Dotted around the edge of the room were scribes, ready with pencils in hands to record the meeting.

Petyr Baelish sat opposite Jon, at the head of the table, and greeted the guests as they entered with a feigned warmth. The black of his simple tunic reflected a dark green as he moved in the daylight; simulating a green field for the mockingbird on his pin to lay on.

Harold Hardying was also at the table, sat in the middle, away from both Petyr and Jon with equal distance. His sandy hair was perfectly styled but his sapphire eyes was absent of its usual glint. The only outsiders in the room were Jon and Ser Davos. The old man sat next to Jon, cramped to his right but Jon felt better for having him there.

They decided to host the meeting in the Feasting Hall as opposed to the Great Hall. The Feasting Hall wasn’t as intimidating, and it had a sphere of friendliness to it. That, and it was the only other room in the Castle big enough to host it.

As it was now daytime, the window shutters were opened, letting in streams of sunlight. Luckily, the rays of light didn’t hit the table too harshly but it did warm up the room on the cold winter morning. The Feasting Hall had a big stained glass window right at the top of the wall; something which Jon didn’t notice last night. The flecks of colours bounced all over the room playfully.

The image in the window was of Artys Arryn, the Founder of House Arryn. The Winged Knight had a gallant look, complete with a strong jaw, light brown hair and sky blue eyes. He was as Andal as they come. Surrounding him were falcons, all in flight, and a bright crescent moon.

The poor servants had obviously worked throughout the night and early morning to have the room prepared for the negotiations. Placed along the table were jugs of light beer and bread and salt. The table itself was made of driftwood, the same as the Arryn throne. In the morning light, it shone vibrant blues, greens, pinks and purples. Strangely enough, it reminded Jon of the colourful pretty dresses the ladies wore in the Capital.

Jon could recall the first time he watched people attend a service at the Great Sept in Kingslanding. The bells rang out high and low, calling the people to attend. And out they came in droves.

Husbands and wives walked hand in hand, babes softly slept in their mother’s arms and children sat on their father’s shoulders. The colours of the crowd were the same as the colours in the driftwood. In the North, they wore mostly wore dark and depressing colours; but the Capital was full vibrant hues and shades of all colours. He had seen nothing like it in all his years.

When Jon saw the amount of love present just in those small gestures, it seemed as though everything was going to be all right- for a couple of hours at least.

Daenerys regularly attended services to keep up a good public face but much to her frustration, Jon refused to go with her. His faith was not up for debate. He could appreciate the beauty of the Southern religion but he preferred the solitude of the godswood.

The Kingslanding godswood was nothing more than a stump, but despite that, he could still feel the magic within those protruding white roots.

It was only when he heard the singing from the Sept did he truly understand the appeal of the new gods. _Gentle Mother font of mercy..._

Back at the negotiating table, Littlefinger stood up. This quickly silenced the polite chatter in the room, and everyone turned to face him. Jon thought Littlefinger moved with a strange fluidity as the man opened his arms to announce, “Good morning, my Lords.”

He then met his hands in the middle and cupped them together. He continued with a slight grin, which looked unnatural, and downright creepy on his face. “I hope last nights events haven’t hindered our negotiating skills today.”

It was meant as an light joke, but the response was meagre. And a few quiet chuckles did nothing to ease the tension. Littlefinger’s smile changed from the grin to his signature closed mouth mask. It was a smirk that said, ‘I know something you don’t.’ And Jon hated that patronising sense of superiority Littlefinger thought that gave him.

“We all know why we are here today. Jon Targaryen has come to offer an alliance between the Vale and House Targaryen. He wants us to swear fealty to his aunt, Daenerys Stormborn, and bend the knee.”

The room was soon filled with scoffs and raised eyebrows. Baelish snickered slightly. And Jon wondered how someone so lovely as Alayne could come from such a horrible man.

“Now, now, we owe it to him to at least listen,” Baelish reminded. “He is our honoured guest after all.”

Guest rites were mostly a Northern phenomenon so Jon wasn’t surprised when he wasn’t presented with bread and salt as soon as he entered the castle. Besides, after the Red Wedding, it seemed to have lost its significance.

“We shall decide what is best for the Vale. As Lord Protector, I will be speaking for House Baelish and House Arryn,” Littlefinger casually mentioned, under the innocent guise of pragmatism.

Jon noticed how this unsettled some of the men around the room, who shifted uncomfortably in their seats. I could use this to my advantage, he thought.

Baelish sat back down, resting his hands on the arm of the chair in a most Joffrey-like manner. Or as Joffrey-like as Jon could remember.

This was his cue. With a deep breath, he stood up, using the table to help anchor him to the ground. Jon’s eyes were glued to his hands, which were now balled into fists and digging into the table.

The Northman confessed, “You don’t know me. You don’t trust me, I understand that. I wouldn’t either.”

Looking up from his hands, he quickly made eye contact with every single man at the table. He realised how despite being introduced to many of the Vale Lords the previous night, they were strangers really.

“Do you not think I know what is said about Targaryens?,” he questioned. “I grew up around it my whole life.” His voice was stronger now, gaining confidence with each passing word.

“Mad, dangerous...evil. But my aunt and I,” he paused, shaking his head, “we are not like that. She has a good heart.”

“Aerys in his youth was also said to have had a good heart.” Littlefinger interjected.

Jon tried to judge the response of the men around him. Many sorrowfully nodded as they were old enough to remember what the Mad King was like before he become the Mad King. The quiet discussions between the Lords and their advisors began.

Jon stared at Baelish, unblinking. Aerys was an easy jab to make. Moves and countermoves, Jon thought.

“She’s not her father. The same as I am not mine,” Jon said, solemnly. The murmurings stopped as the room bathed in an awkward silence. Jon scarcely mentioned Rhaegar.

“On my honour as a Stark, I know her to be good and just.”

As the words left Jon’s mouth, he heard some tittering. He didn’t know whether they were laughing at Jon calling himself a Stark, or him declaring Daenerys as good and just. Either way, he didn’t like it and he barely tried to cover up a scowl.

He heard a loud snort emerge from a short, stocky man with a mop of dirty blond hair. Jon couldn’t quite remember his name; it was either Lord Gerold Grafton, or Lord Gyles Grafton.

In an attempt to salvage his wounded pride, Jon looked at Lord Royce and confessed, “Ned Stark may not be my actual father but he is the man who raised me. He instilled the values he learnt here, in me.”

Jon’s eyes made their way to Lord Grafton‘s as he affirmed, “I would not lie.”

That shut him up, Jon thought. He only just managed to suppress a smug smile. Jon saw how Royce nodded in response, the corners of his mouth subtly upturning.

“Daenerys liberates people wherever she goes and helps the people who need it most. She wants to help the Vale against the people who threaten it,” Jon said, adding emphasis to the word ‘help’ as he went.

“She is the one who is threatening our existence!,” a voice piped up from across the table. The mystery speaker was someone Jon didn’t recognise; a thin, middle aged man with thick black hair and a dark mole on his left cheek. Jon felt guilty for not being able to pin a name to a face.

“She is not,” Jon shook his head, replying with all the sincerity a Stark could muster.

“She is not your enemy,” Jon assured, “remember who the true evil is, my Lords.”

Some of the Lords tentatively looked at one another; others took sips from their goblets, their faces in deep concentration, as though they were having an internal debate with themselves.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon noticed Royce staring at him. He knew what he had really meant.

Jon swiftly moved on, “Cersei and Jaime Lannister are out there somewhere.”

This information seemed to be new to them. Perhaps they didn’t hear how they escaped Kingslanding alive during the attack? Regardless, the room reacted with a hushed dismay. Jon noted that the Lannister card is a good one to play.

“They made it out of Kingslanding alive,” Jon explained. “We don’t know where they are, or where they are headed but everyday, they are gathering more and more strength.”

Jon scoffed. “Does Cersei seem like the type of person to just give up?” Jon interrogated, eyebrows raised.

“The only person who can protect you is Daenerys,” Jon concluded. The room sighed. He had them up until the last sentence. Daenerys name soured it. So he tried again.

“Isnt that the point of the whole system? The monarch provides protection in return for loyalty,” Jon exclaimed.

“Daenerys has three fully grown dragons in her arsenal, and a large, elite army. She can protect anyone, the Vale included, if you just bend the knee.”

“Dragons not do plant trees,” Lord Symond Crayne merely stated.

Previous gathering whispers dwindled, they wanted to hear what the Lord had to say.

“They destruction to wherever they go, and destruction alone,” Crayne warned.

Lord Symond Crayne was a very old man with few teeth, and even fewer hairs on his head, but many growing from his ears. He had active light green eyes which hinted that he still had his wits about him.

“Don’t not think we have forgotten that the Eeyrie is impregnable, except to dragon fire. Daenerys is the only person on this earth with dragons; If Cersei attacks, we stay here and she cannot get us.”

The room nodded in agreement, even some hums of consensus were dashed in. Jon wanted to scream. Can’t they see, he thought?

Daenerys is the only person with dragons, and the fortress’ only weakness is dragon fire. Why wouldn’t you bend the knee? Did they really think that she wouldn’t take the risk of unpopularity and attack the Eeyrie?

But Jon couldn’t mention that of course. If they sensed a threat, or any hostility on this end, they would send him packing. Probably push him through the Moon Door. He had to make them see somehow, though. For their sake.

“If not for protectionism, what of revenge? What of justice and honour?” Jon asked, his voice more tense, and a lot louder than he expected. He cleared his throat to play it off.

“The Lannisters killed your previous liege Lord, Jon Arryn...my namesake. Wouldn’t we all want to see him avenged? Bending the knee will ensure that will happen,” Jon offered, but trying to hide the desperation in his voice.

The Vale Lords looked at one another, and then to their advisors. They were mumbling to each other but Jon couldn’t make anything out. He even tried to read their expressions but it to was too tricky. Was it almost approval? He truly couldn’t say.

Throughout the meeting, Harold Hardying leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared at one spot on the table. His focused gaze was an attempt to calm himself down but as Jon’s words increasingly vexed him with every passing second; Harold was now at boiling point.

“And what if we don’t, Aegon? What if we refuse? What will happen then?” Harold hissed, still refusing to look at Jon.

The whole room came to a halt upon hearing Jon’s birth name. Jon had made sure no one would ever call him that, not even Daenerys. All Jon wanted to do want jump over the table and lunge at Harold. Just to get his hands on him and sort his problem out like men. But instead he chose not to react, after all that’s what Harold wanted. Jon wasn’t going to exhibit the deadly Targaryen rage that they all so badly wanted to see.

The room was so silent, you could hear a pin drop. The advisors stopped their whispers. You couldn’t even hear a scratch of a pencil from the scribes.

Harold turned to face Jon, his rage could no longer be controlled. “I’ve also heard about her escapades in Essos. ‘Liberating’ them? Is that what you call it?” he growled.

Harold now spoke to his peers at the table, “The people she liberates become slaves to her, and she uses them to quench her unrelenting thirst for the Iron Throne. I’ve heard what she does to people, especially the ones in power. She burns them alive.”

The Lords gasped, worried looks appearing across their faces. Their brows furrowed as eyes became wider, frowns forming on their lips. “Everyone who rejects her, she burns,” Harold spat.

Each word felt like a stab in the gut. His whole argument was being shot down. He wished he could make them understand how Essos is so different from here.

And that the men she burned were evil men, who would have done much worse to her. But they wouldn’t understand, all they hear is nobles being burnt and they panic.

Jon had no idea how Harold all this information. He only knew about Essos from what Dany told him, no one else spoke of it. Who does Harold know that he links to Essos? And then it hit him. Sat right before him was a Baelish; the descendant of a Braavosi sellsword.

Jon bit his tongue. He couldn’t display any anger, or everything might fall apart.

“The Tarlys were just the beginning,” Harold claimed. Jon didn’t know what he meant by that. Jon wasn’t there but he heard that the Tarlys died in battle. It’s tragic but that’s the risk you take when you become a solider.

Harold glared back at Jon again, “I heard it took all you had to convince her not to set Kingslanding to the torch.”

Jon’s mind instinctively went back to that day without his permission.

Dany’s forces were stationed outside the city, and Cersei still refused to surrender. The Iron Fleet were destroyed, the futile Scorpions had been burned to charcoal. The Golden Company, bought with Tyrell gold, were holding off Dany’s infantry.

The Golden Company is the world’s most elite force, and both the Unsullied and Dothraki couldn’t break the line. They needed something that would allow the army to enter into the city, they were stuck otherwise. What they needed was dragon fire. Death by burning is an awful way to go. The screams have haunted Jon ever since.

Half the infantry ran into the city; the other half was held back to keep the now burning Golden Company at bay. Cersei still refused to surrender. Jon and Dany were watching on dragon back as they entered the city. It looked deserted, but everyone was just hiding. He saw the two opposing armies stood face to face on the Muddy Way.

The Lannister guards were frozen on the spot, until they threw down their weapons. It wasn’t long before the bells rang throughout the city.

That feeling was like nothing Jon had ever felt before, it was pure relief, mixed in with ecstasy. He was so scared of the city falling; terrified at the prospect of huge amounts of loss to of human life and yet, it had been done so easily.

Few buildings were burnt, and few civilians were injured or dead. Kingslanding still stood, like it had always had done for centuries. Jon gazed across to Daenerys, wanting to rejoice with her.

And that’s when he saw it. _Fire and Blood._ A look of disappointment flashed upon her face. She wanted more. She wanted a fight. She wanted to destroy and she wanted to burn.

Then the disappointment grew into a hysterical rage as her breaths became ragged, and she started to hyperventilate. She glared at the Red Keep, tears flowing. _Fire and Blood._

There was fire behind her violet eyes, flames glowing in the purple haze. In that moment Jon knew what she was going to do. This attack was personal. Their ancestors conquered the Westeros with Fire and Blood and she wanted it. She craved it. And he had to stop her.

He tried calling her at first but she wasn’t listening. She had tunnel vision. Jon was forced to jump from Rhaegal onto Drogon, and clamber towards her. He sat in front of her to block her vision. He had to get her attention away from all that reminded her of her ancestors.

He grabbed her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him. It took everything in him to convince her, and he promised her the world in the process.

Everyday, Jon thanked the gods that he was on dragon back with her. He dreaded to think of the alternative...

“But I am there by her side and always will be. We’re family.” Jon pointed out.

Perhaps it was the talk of family, but the words of Maester Aemon came flooding back to him. To this day it still stunned Jon that he had an actual hidden relative on the Wall with his ‘brothers’.

“A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing...but she’s not alone. In Kingslanding, she was extreme under stress,” Jon assured, saying anything to cling onto what he had before.

“The circumstances were exceptional, it’s never going to be like that again,” he expressed.

“Would you have done it?” Harry asked, with genuine sincerity. The question, and his tone, caught him off guard.

”What?” Jon cried, blinking a little too much.

“Have set Kingslanding to the torch,” Harold challenged, with no sense of superiority or bravado, “If she wasn’t there. If you were the Targaryen alone in the world would you have done it?”

Jon opened his mouth but soon closed it. His heart knew the answer. Harold shook his head. Any respect Harold may have had for Jon as a man, or as a warrior, had disappeared in an instant.

“How is this revelant?” Davos demanded, leaning towards the young heir. In that moment, Jon specifically thanked the gods for Davos.

“We can sit here answering ‘what if’s’ for the rest of time,” Davos scoffed, glaring at Harold. Davos’ glare truly was a sight to behold, it held so much ferocity for a southerner. Still glaring, he turned his attentions to the other men in the room.

“But these are the facts. Like it or not, the Targaryens are back in Westeros, and there’s no chance of getting rid of them. You only have one choice.”

Davos’ tone was so matter of fact that it seemed to surprise the Lords. They weren’t used to having a straight-talking ex-smuggler from Flea Bottom in their midst.

“I’m old and ugly enough to remember life under Targaryen rule,” Davos asserted. “I won’t lie, it wasn’t perfect but it was stable.”

“My family were fine, normal even,” he chortled, “My wife was happy and my boys didn’t starve. Isn’t that what we all want? We need stability after all these years of chaos.”

“Chaos is a pit, my Lords, a fighting pit,” Jon quietly added. Looking directly across the table, Jon noticed Littlefinger’s smug smirk had been replaced with an unreadable expression.

“We fight amongst ourselves whilst our people suffer,” Jon emphasised, shaking his head.

He then looked to Lord Royce and proclaimed, “Winter is coming. And this time, it’s going to be long and hard. We need each other to survive.” Jon pushed down a lump in his throat.

“So we either bend the knee, and live under constant threat of dragon fire from the highly volatile Queen. Or we can refuse, remain our dignity, and burn now rather than later,” Harold contemplated, nodding his head.

“I know my choice,” The Young Falcon growled. Harold got up from his seat, the chair screeching on the stone floor, and marched out the room.

The tension could be cut with a knife. It felt as though no one breathed for at least a minute. Jon knew that there was no chance of a deal. If the heir wasn’t on board, there was nothing he could do.

Jon slowly sank back down, closing his eyes as he did. He gave a soft sigh, holding his head in his hands.

He had tried his best hadn’t he? He could do nothing more, could he? Is that what he would tell himself to sleep better at night?

It was Lord Royce who broke the silence. His voice wasn’t his usual boom but as quiet as a murmur. Clearing his throat, he said, “They say every time a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin...We can never kneel to Daenerys.”

Jon looked out from his hands at the huge man. He exhaled and dropped his arms to his side, feeling as though all hope was lost.The one Lord who he thought could help him...

Jon began to plead,” Lord Royce, pl-“

“But we might bend to you Jon. Half Stark, half Targaryen.” Royce interrupted, meeting Jon’s eyes with an unblinking glare. Jon shook his head.

Royce placed his thick, hairy hand on the table and insisted, “Your claim is better than hers. You are more stable, rational. Bending to Jon Targaryen is easier to swallow than Daenerys of a thousand titles.”

He didn’t want to be king, not now, not ever. Ned became King Regent, and look how that turned out. Robb became the first King in the North for centuries, and look how that turned out.

Jon protested, “That’s no-“

This time it was Davos who interrupted him. Jon turned to face him with wide eyes. Davos had a look in his eye that Jon didn’t like, like cogs were turning fiercely behind them.

“We may be able to come up with a solution,” Davos said slowly but he didn’t dare look at Jon. Instead he faced the room, who had perked up only slightly.

“A marriage to unite the crown,” Davos declared. Jon bit the inside of his cheek, sinking his teeth so deeply that he began to taste metal on his tongue. He knew what Davos was going to say. And he didn’t like it.

“A Targaryen marriage. Jon as King and Daenerys as Queen. That way, you have someone who you rely on, someone you can trust to rule with Daenerys.”

Davos’ proposal immediately took effect amongst the men. The look of disconcertion was painted across faces, Lords and their advisors individually discussing and contemplating. Some began to stare around the room, as if they could find the right answer in each other’s eyes.

“We can give you time to discuss. As much as you need.” Davos added, desperately. Jon knew Davos was just trying to help, and he did so successfully.

He just wished he could have done this without a marriage proposal. It had suggested early on in Kingslanding but both Jon and Daenerys rejected it. Jon wondered whether she would accept the idea now, or still not want to share power.

“That prospect does change things.” Littleinger admitted, shifting in his seat.

“We need some time alone to discuss this prospect. We shall let you know when we come to a conclusion, Your Grace.”

╚═════☩══✦══☩═════╝

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! So I have a lot of things to say.  
> 1\. Thank you to everyone that has commented and given kudos. I can’t tell you what that means to me. I try to respond to every comment, it’s really nice and makes me feel like I have a community of people here. I have also been struggling with a knock to my confidence with writing. I don’t really know why tbh. So I just did my best with this. I’m sorry if it’s not what people like but it’s what I’ve done.  
> 2\. Thank you for everyone’s patience. It takes me a while to actually write and 10x as long to edit. Editing is the hard part bc I’m such a perfectionist. I think I just have to understand that not everything will be perfect and that’s ok bc I’m learning. I think it’s something I’ll grow into.  
> 3\. I found out why I was calling Robin ‘Robert’ at the beginning. In the book he’s called Robert but the TV show changed it, thinking it would confuse viewers. I’m foremost a book reader but I’ll keep it as Robin so it’s clear.  
> 4\. So I’ve explained the KL events around Dany. So what happened in KL is what would have happened if Dany stopped after the bells rang, and she didn’t go fully mad. I want to express her madness in different forms. Missandei is safe and well- so Greyworm has no reason to go full villain. Cersei and Jaime got out like they planned too. The Euron/Jaime fight didn’t happen. Jon doesn’t know what happened to the Tarlys, no one is allowed to tell him- he just thinks they died in battle.  
> 5\. So again, thank you for many different reasons and for understanding. Literally everyone is so nice. I’m sorry if you really like Jon chapters but there might be more Alayne/ Sansa than Jon. The next chapter should be Sansa and Jon talking alone for the first time. So can’t wait to share that one.  
> Lots of love xx Caesarscat xox


	6. A Strange Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All in one day, Alayne meets two of the men in her life to her surprise in strange circumstances.   
> Meanwhile, Jon is reacting to the pervious negotiations badly, and is struggling to keep it together.

__╔═════☩══♛══☩═════╗

“Come on Robin!” An irritable Alayne called out from over her shoulder. No reply came. She pictured a sulky Robin actively ignoring her, sitting on his bed with crossed arms and a pout as she squeezed her fingers into a pair of moleskin gloves.

 

Alayne gave a slow blink, and a loud huff. She had little patience for Robin’s tantrums today, having been on edge ever since Jon had arrived.

 

“You know if you want to see the falcons you have to wear you hat, gloves and scarf.”

 

Alayne had even gone to the effort of personalising his new outwear so it looked more appealing to the summer child. Practically slaving over the garments, she embroidered multiple falcons, crescent moons and his initials for what felt like years. But in a mood like this, Robin didn’t even notice. 

 

Wiggling her gloved fingers about, she cried, “It’s winter for god’s sake! I’m wearing mine.”

 

Still no reply. She loved the boy enough to admit that he was a brat. Alayne had had enough, and so she began to march into the boy’s bedroom, shouting threats as she went, “Robin if you don’t put them on a I swear to god I will-!” 

 

Alayne quickly shut her mouth, and froze in place when she noticed Harry sheepishly enter the room. 

 

“A-am I disturbing something?” He carefully inquired, looking around the room and into Robin’s bed chamber. 

 

Alayne felt herself blush at him catching her mid-reprimand. 

 

“No. Robin and I are just going to the falconry,” she stated passive-aggressively, and loud enough so Robin could hear from the other room, “but he’s not listening to me.”

 

“Could I come along?” Harry mumbled and avoiding direct eye contact. 

 

Alayne furrowed her brow slightly. This surprised her as she didn’t think Harry liked children very much- or at least doesn’t enjoy their company. He too impatient, too hot-headed and grows tiresome too easily, even with his own.

 

“Only if you can get him to wrap up warm,” Alayne agreed, raising her eyebrows.

 

Harry flashed a dazzling smile; a smile that highlights his dimples and causes Alayne’s belly to flutter. 

 

“No problem,” he claimed with a smooth confidence that only a man like Harry could possess. 

 

Alayne followed close behind with folded arms as Harry strode into Robin’s bedroom, ready to take on the stubborn little Lord. Ha! Good luck, Alayne thought with a small smirk. 

 

Harry stood opposite Robin and towered over him like a giant out of one of Old Nan’s stories. In order to appear less intimidating, he knelt on one knee as to be eye level with the sitting child. 

 

“Come on Robin, you have to do as Alayne says and wrap up warm,” Harry instructed with a gentle voice Alayne had rarely heard. She also appreciated the way he backed up her command instead of creating his own. 

 

Robin, still with crossed arms and a pout, shook his head viciously. Harry looked at the ground and subtly rolled his eyes. They both knew how Robin could be. 

 

Harry took in a deep breath and looked up to ask, “And why ever not?”

 

“The Winged Knight didn’t wrap up warm,” Robin whined, and cast a harsh look over to Alayne. 

 

Harry sighed again and murmured under his breath, “of course.” 

 

He turned his head to look at Alayne, a small grin appearing on his face, and joked, “This is your fault this is. Filling his head up with nonsense!” 

 

“Hey!” Alayne retaliated defensively, “All children should hear stories.” 

 

But she instantly started to worry for she knew what happens when your head’s in the clouds, thinking life is a song. 

 

Harry shook his head at her, biting his cheek to stifle his laughter. 

 

“How do you know he didn’t?” He said, turning his focus back to Robin to challenge the little Lord. 

 

Robin let out a few exasperated noises when he was trying to think of a reply, but nothing coherent followed because he couldn’t refute Harry’s point. He just sat with a scrunched up face, deep in thought. 

 

“Even the best heroes need to wrap up warm! And pretty sure he did.” 

 

“Well, if you’re coming you need to wrap up warm too!”

 

So he heard that from the other room, Alayne frustratedly thought to herself, but not me calling him a thousand times! 

 

“Ah ha, well, Robin, I’m no hero,” Harry simply explained, placing his hand over his chest.

 

Alayne couldn’t hold it in, and snorted loudly, muttering to herself, “you can say that again.”

 

If Harry heard her, he ignored it. 

 

“Now do as Alayne says or I will be forced to do something I really don’t want to do,” Harry warned, the corners of his mouth upturning slightly. 

 

“Like what?” Robin asked with a cheeky glint in his eye. 

 

“This!” Harry bellowed, picking up Robin as if he weighed nothing and slinging him over his shoulder. 

 

He then ran around the room, shaking the squealing boy. Initially, Alayne was worried and asked Harry to be careful. But she saw the way Robin’s pale face lit up with delight as he giggled around the room. And pretty soon, she couldn’t help but join in the laughter too. 

 

When Harry carefully placed Robin down, all it took was a pat on the back and the boy followed the silent order. 

 

Robin put on the woolly garments all by himself, and trotted out to the cloak stand in the living area. Alayne followed after him, hearing Harry add from behind, “your welcome!” 

 

Alayne helped Robin fasten his cloak tightly around him, making sure not one part of his body was left exposed to the cold. Stepping back to survey him, she commented with a warm smile, “ah, perfect.” The boy had on so many layers, he had doubled in size. 

 

To her surprise, Harry came up behind her and in one smooth movement, clasped her own cloak around her shoulders. She shrieked, almost jumping into the air. 

 

“Sorry!” Harry quickly tried to explain, his eyes wide and apologetic, “I was just trying to help.” 

 

Strictly, Harry hadn’t done anything wrong-unless being a gentlemen is a crime. Nevertheless, she still wanted to scream at him to never surprise her like that again. She absolutely despised being unexpectedly touched, or jolted by anyone but especially men. But she could never explain to him why; so instead she let out an awkward chuckle to try and ease the tension. 

 

“Oh, thank you.” 

 

Her face blushed slightly at her reaction to his touch. She hated how easily she blushes, like a stupid little girl. But it was her naturally pasty complexion which made her more susceptible to any slight colourisation. 

 

Her’s and Harry’s eyes were locked together until they heard a noise coming from down below. Both turning their heads towards the source of the noise, they discovered it was Robin making kissing noises at the two of them. Feeling her face burning, she didn’t dare look at Harry.

 

Wanting to shut Robin up, Alayne loudly announced, “Ok you! Let’s go!”

 

Alayne held out a hand for Robin to take, which he reluctantly did. Politely, Harry opened the door for Alayne and Robin to walk through first. 

 

Alayne gave a friendly smile to Roland, the the kind guard stationed at Robin’s door, and exchanged pleasantries. Slamming the door behind him, Harry only gave Roland a curt nod before he ushered them down the corridor. 

 

Strolling the castle pleasantly together, Alayne made the decision to delicately question Harry about the negotiations. 

 

“So how did this morning go?” 

 

Harry scrunched his face and answered, “I don’t know to be honest. I walked out.” 

 

“You walked out?!” She exclaimed with her mouth agape. Resisting the urge to freeze on the spot, she stared Harrydown, who was avoiding her gaze. 

 

“Yes,” Harry grunted. 

 

“I couldn’t stand it much longer. He’s so fake. I don’t trust anything that Targaryen says.” 

 

Before Alayne could react, Robin wriggled free from a distracted Alayne’s grasp and sprinted ahead. 

 

“Hey! Robin, come back!” 

 

Alayne hiked up her skirts, not caring if Harry tried to sneak a peak under them, and chased after him. If it weren’t for her damn tight stays and tricky dress, she would have caught him.

 

Harry paced by her side, visibly taken aback by how fast she could be if necessary. 

 

“So is it still going on, the meeting?” She panted. 

 

“I don’t know. I came straight to see you.” 

 

Alayne didn’t know what that was supposed to mean. Or how she felt about it either. 

 

“Oh,” she uttered.

 

Breaking the awkward silence, Harry blurted, “for such an ill child, he’s got legs like lightning.” 

 

She would have laughed if she didn’t know the sad truth. 

 

“Going to the Falconry is one of the few times he’s actually allowed outside.” 

 

All the running meant that they arrived at the Falconry in no time but they were wheezing, all sweaty and bothered. Robin stood outside the Falconry alone, yelling as loud of his tiny voice could manage,

“Hurry up Alayne! Hurry up Harry!”

 

Her eyes narrowed. And with a scowl on her face, she marched up to Robin and bellowing, “Robert Arryn! What the hell are you playing at? Never do that again. Do you hear me?” 

 

Robin knew he was in big trouble whenever Alayne called him by his full name. He looked down at his feet as he apologised, “I’m sorry, Alayne. I was so excited and then Harry said something about the Targaryens and I got scared.” 

 

Pools of tears formed in his saucer shaped-eyes and his bottom lip quivered. All the Targaryen talk had spooked him, she thought. Feeling awful for the little boy, Alayne crouched down, and gathered him in her arms. She cooed him, and slowly stroking his head reassured him that his fears were pure fantasy. 

 

“Shall we go in then?” she suggested, freeing him from her embrace. She caught his eye as a smile began to form on his face and grinned at him. He nodded eagerly, and closely followed her as she entered. 

 

The Falconer, Codin, was already waiting for them and as cheery as ever. “Good morning, Robin!” he sang, waving at him happily. Robin shyly waved back. 

 

“Good morning Alayne, you’re looking as radiant as ever.”

 

She didn’t mind Codin; he often gazed at her for too long, or tried (unsuccessfully) to flirt with her but he never leered, or made her feel uncomfortable. He was harmless really, just an sweet young man. And he was always patient and understanding with Robin, meaning he was perfect for the job. 

 

Alayne replied with a charmed smile, “Morning Codin, we have a guest with us today.”

 

Codin’s eyes found Harry, who had just stalked into the room, and as the colour drained from his face. She hoped Harry wouldn’t be cruel to him. Codin’s comments never overstepped a boundary and of all the times they were alone together, he had never tried anything with her. Perhaps what Aylard said was true, she worried to herself, maybe he does beat up any man that so much as speaks my name.

 

His voice faltered as he said, “Lord Hardying, it is a pleasure.” And he bowed. 

 

Harry forced a smile, and gave a civil nod; which was all Alayne could ask for really. 

 

“I’ll let you to get on with it,” Alayne chimed, and cheekily winked at Codin. His face went as red as his the ginger hair on his head. With Harry in the room, a flustered Codin didn’t know where to look. 

 

Alayne gave Robin an encouraging nod, and watched closely as the two of them started to chat together. Codin and Robin were on familiar terms, they had met and chatted many times before but that didn’t mean that Robin wasn’t still nervous to speak on his own. 

 

However, Alayne felt it important for him to do such things; it’s important for healthy development. She couldn’t be right by his side for the rest of his life, and so this acted as practise. 

 

After a while, she determined that it was best if she backed off so she stepped away. She used a wooden crate, probably full of bird feed, as a makeshift chair. Not wanting to disturb the little freedom and independence Robin had, Alayne sat as a silent voyeur. 

 

Harry came up behind her and pointed out, “you really shouldn’t tease the poor lad like that. I know better than anyone how truly unfair it feels.” 

 

Alayne snorted. “Oh Harry, don’t be so melodramatic.” 

 

She could feel Harry silently chuckle next to her, and then shake his head. 

 

“You’re so good with Robin.” he insisted. “I’ve always admired that about you.”

 

She snapped her neck around to look up at him. “Harry, what do you want?” She demanded impatiently, eyeing him up suspiciously. 

 

Harry guffawed. “What do you mean?”

 

“First, you come straight to see me after you’ve had a tantrum and now you admire me?

 

“Tantrum?” He objected. Alayne only gave him a look, and Harry moodily carried on, “Can’t I be nice to you with no ulterior motive?”

 

“No,” she said bluntly. Harry huffed, and crossed his arms over his chest. 

 

“I usually do have one,” he disclosed, leaning closer to her, “but this time I don’t. I meant every word.” 

 

She bit her lip to stop her from blushing, and luckily it mostly worked. Alayne muttered an embarrassed “Thank you, Harry.” 

 

“And if we’re to be married anyway, why should I put in the effort of courting you.” 

 

Alayne scoffed. Shaking her head, she rolled her eyes and hissed, “Oh Harry, you really do have a way with the ladies.” 

 

Ignoring his protests and fumbled corrections, Alayne observed the view of the Falconry’s window. She knew what he said wasn’t true anyway. Of all the men that have tried to court her over the years, Harry put the most effort into looking as though he wasn’t courting her, when he so clearly was. Harry soon went quiet when he worked out that Alayne wasn’t paying him any attention. 

 

“Alayne! Alayne, look!” Robin squealed,nearly jumping up and down with pure excitement. 

 

The great bird was placed on the boy’s frail arm, with its long and sharp talons dug into the thick suede of the protective gloves. Of course Robin wasn’t actually carrying the bird on his own, Codin had ahold of it from behind. But he was subtle enough to make it look as though it sat solely on Robin’s arm. Alayne’s studious eye inspected the situation, closely monitoring the Falcon’s movements. 

 

Leaning forward in her seat, Alayne gave a gratifying smile and joyfully clapped her hands together. “Oh how wonderful!” She proclaimed. 

 

“You’re every bit the Lord of the Vale; a true Winged Knight!” 

 

Robin beamed and looked up at Codin. TheFalconer was absentmindedly gazing at Alayne until she shot him an urgent look, and his eyes darted to Robin. Codin returned the grin, and proceeded to give instructions on the correct way to stroke the bird’s plumage.

 

Feeling prouder than ever, Alayne watched as Robin petted the falcon as gently as he could. She had drilled into him the message of respecting animals, and this just proved that he had actually listened to her. 

 

With her help, Robin had made so much progress since his mother passed. His mother was holding him back, and together they were slowly undoing all the detriment she had done to him. Alayne figured Robin would always be over-sensitive and emotional, however.But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t be a healthy and happy individual, and that’s all she wanted for him. 

 

Alayne wanted to capture this happy moment forever; and made a mental note of every little detail- including how she had never loved the little boy more than in this moment. 

 

“Alayne.”

 

“Hmmmm,” Alayne mumbled, tearing her eyes away from Robin to Harry, who was stood behind her. Harry wasn’t looking at her though. His focus was on Robin, a pained expression on his face. 

 

Harry paused, as if he was trying to think of how to properly word what he was about to say, before cautiously asking, “Do you think he’ll make it past winter?”

 

Alayne was momentarily stunned. It was a prospect that she could rarely bear to think about; and she was very defensive of anything that involved Robin. 

 

Grabbing ahold of Harry’s sleeve, she yanked him into the corner, forcing Harry to break his line of sight on Robin. Alayne wanted to make sure that Robin wouldn’t hear anything that was to be said. 

 

“Why do you want to know?” She interrogated as quietly as she could, “So you can count down the days until you’re Lord of the Vale?” 

 

Astonished, Harry stared at her, bewildered and not blinking. He shook his head decidedly. 

 

“I just want to know how long the poor boy has left,” he admitted sorrowfully. 

 

Alayne was amazed. She had no idea he cared that much. Then again, she thought, no one would like the impending death of a child. 

 

Feeling it necessary to answer Harry’s genuine question with a honest reply, she tried to explain as clinically as she could, “we don’t know. He has good days and bad days. We just take each day as it comes...if it comes.” 

 

Harry nodded silently, as if he really did understand the gravity and implications of the situation. 

 

Alayne gazed over at the giggling boy, who was happily oblivious to how dire his health is. Letting out a longing sigh, Alayne slowly blinked at Robin. So lost in thought, she didn’t even notice Harry tuck of lock of her hair behind her ear. 

 

“Alayne,” he breathed, taking her hand in his. He was so close she felt his breath of her skin, which sent goosebumps all down her body, and a shiver up her spine. 

 

Turning her attentions back to Harry, Alayne noticed the way his sapphire eyes looked longingly at her. She could almost feel her icy exterior begin to melt. Almost. 

 

“I came to you when I walked out of the negotiations because, truthfully, you’re really the only person here who I actually like,” he purred, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb, “Because, you’re different to everyone else.” 

 

In the blink of an eye, his look of softness changed to a look of seduction; which only made what he was saying dangerously convincing. 

 

She didn’t know what he had meant by that though. Was it supposed to be a compliment? Alayne tilted her head back and inquired further with raised eyebrows, “different?” 

 

Taking notice of her suspicious tone he hurried to correct himself, “a good different.” 

 

“Fucking phenomenally different actually,” he emphasised, biting his lip provocatively. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before.” 

 

“How so?” 

 

Harry coyly looked down at his feet, smiling slightly. “You tell me what I need to hear; not want I want to. Everyone around me just agrees with everything I say. But you don’t, Alayne.” 

 

Alayne swallowed a laugh, biting the inside of her cheek. She thought to herself, What on earth is he going on about?

 

“And you’re smart, and witty, and brave and beautiful. Everyone else thinks so, it’s not just me. I mean look at how Roland and Codin act around you. Everyone knows how special you are...”

 

He bent down, and started to lean in, the distance between them gradually closing. Parting his lips ever so slightly, he shut his eyes, preparing for contact. The rolling of warning bells began to ring in Alayne’s ears. Oh gods, she panicked, he’s going to kiss me! 

 

A naughty part of her felt like kissing him back. Hadn’t she waited long enough; they were to be married after all? Years ago, on one drunken night, her and Harry had locked lips. She didn’t know whether Harry remembered it because nothing was brought up the next day. It was as if nothing had happened but she knew something did. And she didn’t tell anyone, not even Mya or Myranda; it was her memory and hers alone. 

 

She figured that Harry had had a lot of practise to perfect his technique and although she hated to admit it, the kiss felt like bliss. She considered it to be her first real kiss as it was the first kiss she had consented to, the first kiss she had actually wanted. And despite all of that, a part of her still refused.The little malicious voice inside her head started to whisper. 

 

_ Sometimes when I try to understand a person’s motives, I play a little game. I assume the worst. What’s the worst reason they could possibly have for saying what they say and doing what they do? _

 

In the pit of her stomach, Alayne felt an uncomfortable sinking feeling, not too dissimilar to riding over a hill in a fast carriage. The vague apprehension wouldn’t dissipate not matter how hard she tried to push it away. And deep down,she knew that she couldn’t truly give into her desires, not with her mind racing like this. 

 

With stark determination, Alayne shifted closer to her betrothed than she had ever been before, and felt Harry gently wrap his hands around her waist intimately. Standing up on her tip-toes, her lips found his ear and whispered, “because, sometimes you need taking down a peg.”

 

She breathed in deeply, gathering his scent of cinnamon and rosewood. His alluring aroma only made her decision even harder to follow through with. Finding herself momentarily unable to take in air, Alayne slipped out of Harry’s arms and proceeded towards Robin. 

 

Robin was still entranced with the falcons and hadn’t taken notice to what had been happening around him. Behind her back, she could sense Harry frozen on the spot, reeling over her repeated rejection.

╚═════☩══✦══☩═════╝

 

╔═════☩══♛══☩═════╗

Not a word was uttered between Jon and Davos as they made their way back to the Eeyrie’s guest wing. Jon couldn’t even stand to look in the old man’s direction, and outright ignored Davos’ attempts to catch his eye. Not caring if anyone thought him childish, Jon stomped his way through the corridors of the Eeyrie wearing a brooding scowl. A storm was brewing inside; a storm derided from defeat. 

 

The Vale Lords were too blind, too proud to see where they were headed. Or perhaps they were wilfully ignorant, Jon didn’t know nor did he care. At this moment, he was more annoyed with himself than anything. Annoyed because he didn’t do enough to make them realise the danger they were in; he wasn’t capable of convincing them. And for that, he felt total defeat. 

 

And as for marrying his aunt... 

 

At that moment, all his thoughts swirled around his head like a whirlpool, deeming it impossible for him to process anything. Except, the lingering sense of impending doom, and persistent dread haunted him. It was the mixed emotions which made him sick to his stomach, and feel as though he were about to snap. 

 

In the heat of the moment, Jon had made promises to Daenerys; of which, only time could tell whether they were empty or not. He could admit that sometimes he displayed his affections, and said words of love but never did a decisive feeling arise. And now, everything was coming at him way too fast. 

 

After all these years of having to fight at any moment, never having the chance to run away, Jon was tired. Whether it was on the Wall or beyond, the North or the South; for his own sake, Jon needed it to be over. It had to end. 

 

In his foolish youth, Jon had wanted many things. But now as a hardened man, he found that they no longer mattered. Finding it unnecessary to be a Lord, he didn’t want to be a man of many titles- he didn’t even want to be rich beyond his wildest dreams. 

 

What he really wanted was peace. Yes, Jon craved peace like a drunkard craved a Dornish Red. All he wanted was the simple life; grow old next to a happy wife, and many healthy, prosperous children. And he wanted them to all live together in a good world, a better world than what he knew. 

 

However, he realised that, in order to achieve this, he was forced to rely on Daenerys to make it happen. She held the stability of the realm, and Jon’s happiness, in her hands. He needed her to be calm and collected; he needed to trust her. But could he? 

 

He didn’t know for sure whether he wanted to marry Daenerys, and even thinking of a marriage between the two of them made his head spin. What he did know was that,in the end, how he felt about it didn’t really matter. It was rather a question of whether he could physically marry her.

 

Could he do it, and forsake his honour forever? Could he lie in front of the public, in front of the gods, and enter into a union he had no intention of fulfilling properly? 

 

His head encouraged him, urging him to think of the greater good but his heart was saying otherwise. And sadly, his heart was his most trusted advisor. His head retorted back, could you do it for the Vale, Jon? Could you do for Westeros? 

 

Jon and Davos had obviously arrived back a lot earlier than his entourage had expected. Most of his men weren’t even indoors, with Jon guessing they were occupying their time outside. Those who remained behind came out of their rooms, approaching the two of them with warm smiles. 

 

However, they soon stopped in their tracks when they saw their grumpy faces up close. Sensing the tense atmosphere, they skulked away as quickly as possible. 

 

Jon opened his chamber door with unnecessary aggression and marched his way in. Davos followed Jon, and closed the door behind him with a sharp intake of breath. Still unable to look at the man, Jon continued to have his back to him. 

 

“I know you’re angry but this might just work,” Davos pleaded, the desperation clear in his voice. 

 

Some may call it the Targaryen rage but with the mood Jon was in, Davos’ appeal meant nothing. Spinning around on his heel to face him, Jon viciously spat out his words like dragon fire, “Angry? Angry?!” 

 

“Jon-.”

 

“It won’t work Davos!” Jon fiercely interrupted, silencing the man by his sheer force of words. 

 

“They want me on the throne, not the both of us. And do you think Dany is willing to share? She’s fought for this her whole life- she will stop at nothing to get it. “

 

The old man frowned until his wrinkles turned into deep crevices. 

 

“I know!” Davos yelled, taking a deep breath so he could calmly continue, “that’s why I suggested marriage. If they agree, it will save them.”

 

“But what if it won’t!?” Jon demanded, “What if we...what if I can’t save them?” 

 

It was though he was begging Davos to find the answer, to have a solution like he always does. But the old man stayed silent, looking helplessly at him. 

 

Jon looked Ser Davos in the eye and confessed with heavy breaths, “I don’t think I can stop her this time.” 

 

They both knew what that meant. Jon didn’t even know how many people live in the Eeyrie, or in the Vale overall. Morbidly, he wondered how long it would take for a surrender- if they ever did. How many lives would go up in flames? Royce, Sweetrobin, and even Alayne- all gone in a heartbeat. 

 

Davos didn’t reply, he didn’t need to, Jon knew what he was thinking. He was questioning whether Jon had made the right decision, if he chose the right queen to follow. And at this moment Jon didn’t even know the answer. 

 

Jon broke the silence first. 

 

“I’d like to be left alone now, please.”

 

Davos gave him a pained look, and Jon began to feel guilty. All Davos wanted to do was help him. He’s trying, Jon, he thought to himself. The ex smuggler gave a single nod before bowing slightly, and leaving without a word. 

 

Jon let out a long sigh as soon as Davos closed the door. He wanted to cry but the tears wouldn’t come. How could he express how he was feeling if he didn’t truly know what was going on inside his head? 

 

Jon stumbled over to his bed, which had been remade with crisp, fresh-smelling sheets, and plonked himself of the edge. As he leant on one of the bed’s four posters, all he could manage was to stare whimsically out the window. 

 

From his room, one could see the Main Gate, the Guard Quarters and the path than leaded to the Central Courtyard. Jon watched the little specks of people dotted around, going about their daily lives. They were totally unaware of the real danger they were in and it made his stomach churn. 

 

Not being able to observe them for much longer, he sighed again and rubbed his temples. He knew that Davos was tryingand for that he was grateful but it wasn’t enough. Nothing any of them could do was enough. Jon had never felt more trapped. 

 

Closing his eyes, Jon attempted to steady his breathing and stomach by counting to ten as calmly as he could. He was interrupted, however, by a knock at the door. 

 

Jon paused, debating to himself whether he should answer. Ultimately, he opened his eyes and asked, “Who is it?”

 

“Waylar, Your Grace.”

 

Waylar Cressey, his steward. Jon scrunched up his face, preparing himself for ridiculous questions and more annoyance. 

 

“Come in.” 

 

Waylar Cressey, a lowly noble from the Crownlands, was middle aged man with thick black hair and a well kept moustache. As the fourth child of minor house, he realised early on that he would inherit next to nothing. So instead he turned his hand to stewardship and admin work- he was classically educated after all.

 

Cressey cautiously entered, surveying the situation at hand. Giving a low bow, the steward politely waited to be spoken to. This did not cool Jon’s fury as this habit annoyed him to no end. 

 

“Yes. What is it?” Jon snapped.

 

“I wanted to ask what you wanted to write back to Queen Daenerys about today’s events.” 

 

That was it. He felt himself crack; he had had enough. Immediately, Jon felt as though he had to be somewhere else; a place where no one would bother him, a place where he didn’t have to think. Only if it were a couple of hours, he didn’t care. Jon wanted to be free of politics, negotiations and Daenerys. 

 

“Talk to Davos about it. Write whatever, just send it with the quickest raven. She will want to hear news right away.”

 

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

 

But the steward didn’t leave. Standing awkwardly, Cressey looked around, fiddling with the end of his crimson tunic. 

 

“What, Cressey?” Jon barked, his patience wearing thin. 

 

“Are you ok, Prince Jon? You seem upset.”

 

Am I ok? What a stupid question, he thought. It was so ludicrous, Jon could have laughed in his face. But all he did in the moment was a slow, frustrated blink. 

 

“I’m fine, Waylar.”

 

The steward, reading Jon’s mood, didn’t poke him any further. Instead, Cressey bowed, and practically tip toed his way out the room. Another pang of guilt hit his stomach but he ignored it. He just wanted to be alone. 

 

As soon as Jon heard Davos’ door, which was luckily right next to his, open and close; Jon knew that this was his opportunity. 

 

Quickly searching within his belongings for his wineskin full of his preferred strong Northern beer, Jon slung it over his shoulder and made for the door. Next to the door, a table holding a jug of red wine caught his eye and before he knew it, Jon was swiftly swiping it along with a small goblet.

 

The castle was alien to him, having never been in a place like it. Neither Castle Black , Winterfell or even the Red Keep was like it. All he could do was reiterate his earlier thought, that it really belongs in a fairy tale. Even in the tiniest detail, he found beauty; to the intricately carved wood of even the most simplest doors to the exquisite tapestries which decorated it’s walls. Jon forcefully pushed down a thought for his younger Stark cousins, which was far too painful for him to even express. 

 

He had no idea of where to go but he didn’t care, he felt free in fact. For the first time in a long time, he traveled unguarded. He passed room after room: parlours, salons, guest rooms, meeting rooms, offices, and game, music, sporting and entertainment rooms. Jon could finally comprehend just how dense this castle really was. 

 

It hurt him to think of it, but he couldn’t help but picture a little Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon running down the exact halls of which he stood; the same way he and Robb did when they were children. Perhaps Ned was as awestruck as Jon was when he first arrived at the Eeyrie for his wardship.

 

“I feel you here, father”, Jon murmured sadly to himself. It’s not Winterfell but it’s the best he had. 

 

The servants who were busily walking around stopped and stared, obviously shocked to see the Prince up so close. Some bowed or curtsied as they passed, others gave him dirty looks and carried on as if he weren’t there. Jon ignored most of them as he just wanted to be invisible. He wished Ghost were by his side to ward people off. Oh, how he wanted to nestle his head in the wolf’s thick fur for hours. 

 

Jon wondered that perhaps he needed height to avoid people. The most frequented rooms must be at the bottom, he theorised. But if I go up to the scarcely used areas, I might finally be alone. 

 

As a result, he began to climb. Travelling up multiple staircases, Jon soon became out of breath and stopped at a library. He was unsure if it were the Eeyrie’s main library because of just how empty it was; with not a bureaucrat, librarian or a Maester to be seen. With that in mind, Jon decided that this would be the perfect place to hide from the world. 

 

He crept his way around the maze-like design of the bookcases, still worried that even a creak of a floorboard would alert someone. Eventually, he found a little reading nook tucked away, complete with a small fireplace and a rickety table and chairs. Jon decided that it was as good as a place as any and set up camp. 

 

Pouring himself a cup of red (Jon definitely wasn’t sophisticated enough to know what it was called or where it was from), he downed the first cup in one and began feeling the effects immediately. Fortunately, it eased his anxiety. Unfortunately, it only made him want to drink more and more until he couldn’t feel anything at all.

 

As goblets went by, his mind was still stuck on the marriage proposal. And on Daenerys. And on the possible scorched earth of the Vale. Was he doing the right thing? Could he stop the inevitable? 

 

Time moved without Jon even noticing, if it weren’t for the fading of the light it would look as though time had froze. Thankfully, Jon had lit the tiny fireplace before he had become totally inebriated. 

 

As he drank himself into a memory blackout, what Jon definitely could remember was that he sat in the same spot well into the night, unsure of whether he could actually stand. No one had come looking for him, or at least, no one had found him. 

 

Not hearing anything of significance in hours, he jumped at a sudden yelp he heard coming from behind. This new noise in the sea of silence made him instinctively reached for an absent Longclaw at his side.

 

With no other option than to face the commotion straight on, Jon craned head around the chair, and eventually found the source. Alayne Stone stood frozen on the spot, two great books in hand, looking as though she had seen a ghost. 

 

The moonlight illuminated her flawless skin, as though it glowed, like she were an ethereal spirit. Emphasised by the light, her high cheekbones and rosy lips gave her a sultry, seductive look he couldn’t catch in daylight. Her long eye lashes produced shadows of their own, creating a cat-like effect to her eyes as they shone like diamonds. 

 

A drunken Jon decided in that moment that there were never a more divinely beautiful woman. In his eyes, Alayne was a goddess come to earth. 

 

“Oh Jo-Your Grace!” The beguiling beauty blurted breathily. 

 

Jon didn’t mind being called by his first name, even he wasn’t used to his titles yet. But what he found strange was the way she corrected herself so intensely mid-sentence. It were as she too was getting used to his titles. 

 

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she continued, unconsciously fluttering her eyelashes prettily. Jon, clenching his jaw, thought the way that flush rose in her cheeks was too endearing to bear. 

 

“You didn’t,” he stated, his tone more apathetic than intended. Due to his emotional and alcoholic state, Jon was finding it difficult to conceal how his true feelings. 

 

Alayne didn’t reply, only watched him curiously in the awkward silence. Feeling self-conscious Jon turned away from her, focused on the cup in his hand and waited for her to leave as quickly as she had come. 

 

Jon sighed to himself, and thinking he was alone, ran a finger around the rim of the goblet.He realised that the sadness he had been trying to push away with copious amounts of alcohol had come returned. 

 

“Are you quite alright.” Alayne inquired with a furrowed brow. Jon jolted in surprise as he didn’t think that she was still there watching him. But she was, and she sounded strangely genuinely concerned. 

 

She nervously stepped closer to him as though he were an injured animal. Jon looked up and saw a new look in her eye; sympathy. This made Jon feel even worse- if that were possible. 

 

Forcing a smile, Jon winced out a reply, “Yes, Miss Stone. I’m just drinking away my sorrows.” 

 

And that’s all he could remember from his drunken night with Alayne Stone. 

 ╚═════☩══✦══☩═════╝

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I’m back! It’s been quite a while since I’ve last checked in but a lot has gone on. I went on holiday and then when I came back I was obviously tired but most significantly, my mental health took a huge plummet. Tbh, I don’t know why it does that, I’ve just accepted that that’s life. Anyway, I’ve finally written this chapter and that’s all that matters. I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed anyone, or if anyone was too fed up to carry on reading with little updates. If anyone is annoyed that the Jon/Sansa meeting is cut short, remember that there is a Alayne POV and she is NOT drunk lol. Thanks for sticking with me, and for reading. Lots of love xox


	7. A Close Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne unexpectedly encounters a drunken Jon, who discloses the secrets Alayne craves to know.

╔═════☩══♛══☩═════╗

Alayne silently paced through the rows of tall bookcases full of yellowing tomes which looked as though they hadn’t been touched in decades. The dust collectors smelt musty, but not unpleasant. It was a familiar smell- comforting almost.

The girl she used to be always preferred the outdoors; it was in her blood. Never being allowed to any of the rigorous activities that the boys, or even Arya, were permitted to do, meant that she had to make it work for her. She would sew in Winterfell’s sun traps, or brush out Lady’s coat in the bustling courtyard, or sing under the weirwood as the wind rustled through her hair.

Living in the Eeyrie, though, had taught her to love libraries. They were more exciting than she ever thought were possible. With a book in her hand, the world opened up and somehow, she was free. Through a good story, she could be outside, where she belonged- she could be anywhere, even if it were for only a couple of hours. Living in her head was better than the truth, for the truth is either miserable or boring.

Despite this, Alayne hurried along with two great books held tight around her chest. She moved with purpose, calculating her steps precisely to avoid the creaky floor boards. These books had to be returned without anyone noticing they were missing. In fact, they weren’t even allowed to leave the library; their covers were far too delicate and their intricate print fading.

However, having promised Robin that she would read him the unique stories and show him the beautiful illustrations, Alayne knew she had no choice. She had promised, and she never broke a promise- especially to sick children. Besides, in her hands, they would come to no harm. It wasn’t like her to be reckless with something so fragile, and more importantly, something that weren’t hers.

Tonight, it was the full moon, and the bright light shone through the library’s skylights, illuminating the room just enough to guide the way. Still, she hated travelling alone in the castle at night.

The incident with Marillion had truly shaken her. It was years ago, and she wasn’t who she was now, but it stuck because it wasn’t the first time something like that had happened to her. Time and time again, the dark had spited her for just daring to coexist along side it. And so, never knowing who truly lurked in the shadows, Alayne never trusted them again.

As this were the elder of the Eeyrie’s two libraries, it was cramped and labyrinthine in design, with small reading nooks every so often. Turning a sharp corner, Alayne saw a figure, with its back to her, sat at a fire place, and nearly jumped out of her skin. It sat in silence, with only the crackling of the fire for company, and cast an inhuman, beastly shadow upon the wall.

A shriek escaped her lips before she could control herself. Slapping her hand across her mouth, she tried to muffle the noise. But to no avail, the stranger had been alerted. As she hand dropped to her side, Alayne readied herself to run. Ser Lothor Brune wasn’t here this time, and no one would be able to hear her screams this high up.

A face poked out gingerly from behind the chair, as if it were as afraid of her as she was afraid of it. The face belonged to Jon Targaryen.

His skin gleamed in the glow of the fire, exposing every little scar on his chiseled face. The shadows emphasised the bags under his eyes, revealing him to be exhausted and worse for wear. His steely orbs appeared darker than she knew them to be, and he wore an expression she’d never seen him wear before. It were a look of defeat.

“Oh Jo-Your Grace!” Alayne cried, correcting herself mid-sentence. Had she forgotten herself, and her manners?

Her hands tightened anxiously around the books as she blurted, “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Jon’s reaction was totally unexpected; he didn’t reprimand her for disturbing him, or even seem annoyed. The young man flashed a weak smile with a certain laziness present in his eye. What was he doing here, in a library of all places? Perhaps he didn’t want to be found, she guessed.

“You didn’t,” Jon clarified, his voice soft and grieved. Sighing to himself, he looked down and ran a finger around the rim of the silver goblet in right hand.

Something was wrong; Jon doesn’t even enter a library, let alone linger in one. She knew that she shouldn’t ask him any further questions, and instead turn around and leave in silence.

But no matter how she tried, she just couldn’t. He had this pathetic look in his eyes, like a kicked puppy. Whatever unconscious feelings she held for him had been awaken, and she knew that she could not leave him in this state.

“Are you quite alright?” She inquired, tentatively taking a step towards him.

He jolted slightly, as if surprised that she were still there. Tearing his eyes away from the cup, he paused momentarily before smiling sadly again.

“Yes, Miss Stone. I’m just drinking away my sorrows,” he explained, indicating to the goblet.

Alarm bells sounded in her ears. The pieces were falling in place; the sluggish voice, the glossed-over eyes...he’s drunk, very drunk. Be on guard, Alayne, she warned herself. Alcohol puts men in that mood where they just won’t take no for an answer.

The Jon she knew was not like that at all, but Alayne didn’t really know the man who sat before her. The Wall might have changed him; his ‘brothers’ may have changed him, and who’s to say what he got up to? It would be so easy for him to misunderstand something as an invitation, or to over power her through sheer brute force.

Surveying him, she noticed Jon were taller and stockier than before; less of a pen knife and more of a butcher’s cleaver. He wasn’t at Harry’s or Robb’s size, however. But Jon wasn’t a boy anymore, that’s for sure. Forcing himself on her would be nothing, just like trampling daisy.

“And they won’t find me in here...they wouldn’t stop bothering me, even in my room,” he incoherently rambled, hiccuping as he went and taking swings from whatever he was drinking.

Opposed to her rational head, her gut was telling her that he weren’t a danger.  
How long had he been sat here, she wondered? How much had he drank? And why was he drinking? That doesn’t matter, Alayne, leave now before anything you might regret happens, her head rebutted. But she wasn’t completely convinced until a tiny voice recited to her, _Kindess is a weakness, sweetling._

“Well, I suppose I’ll be leaving you then,” she murmured, spinning around on her heel to leave in the opposite direction.

“Wait!”

Alayne stopped in her tracks, looking over shoulder at him. Desperation was clear in his eyes, and a hand reached out for her.

Everything in her said to ignore him and carry on moving, but his voice was immobilising. He sounded so distressed, and looked so pitiful that she damned herself to whatever was about to happen.

“Ca-can I ask you something?” He asked nervously, avoiding her gaze. His hand was still out towards her and she wanted nothing more than to hold it, to comfort the man. The voice repeated, _your kindness is a weakness._

“That depends.” Alayne quipped, trying to ease the tension somewhat. In her mind, she planned her escape routes and emergency options.

“How far would you go to get revenge?”

His tone was genuine, with no hint of humour to be found. She didn’t know what he meant by this. Does he know about her?

She began to shake, her legs feeling weak under her. She held onto the books so tight, she felt the blood leaving her knuckles. He knows, she panicked.Her father’s words of Jon’s hatred for the Starks came rushing back. He knows.

Alayne knew she had to act nonchalant if she wanted to get away. Not daring to look at him, she focused on the floor boards, and shook her head. Although her voice were shaky, she replied as innocently as she could, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“If your birth right was taken from you,” he slowly explained, “You’re the heir to The Fingers, right? That’s where you’re fathers from”

She snapped her head up, her eyes darting to meet his own. Confused, Alayne began to hurriedly reply, “I can’t, I’m a ba-“

“A bastard, I know,” he finished for her, “but it’s highly probable. You’re the only person that could inherit.”

She’s never thought of it like that. Opening her mouth to speak, she quickly closed it and waited in silence for him to finish his point.

“So one day, someone took that away from you. And in doing that, they killed you’re entire family.”

Alayne felt her mouth dry up. She didn’t want to know where he was going with this.

“How far would you go to take back what was yours?... How far would you go to avenge your family?”

His voice still sounded as drunk as before but at least he was coherent now. She found it strange that he apparently valued her opinion that much, and so she answered diplomatically.

“I- I don’t know.”

His head dropped, as though disappointed, and he nodded morosely. All the signs read danger to her but she still just stared at him, completely confused. What did he expect me to say? I don’t know what you want me to tell you Jon, she thought.

Despite knowing that all she had to do now was to say goodbye and leave, she didn’t. It’s not like her exits weren’t clear, and she doubted that he would follow her either. But she hated disappointing people more than anything. Taking in a deep breath, she scrunched up her face before committing to her fate. You fool, Alayne, she told herself. An utter fool.

Taking small steps forward, Alayne went for the small table first, and carefully set down the books that where in her arms. Grabbing the chair at it’s top, she dragged it next to the Targaryen Prince, for it was far too heavy to carry. Plonking herself down, she looked up to see Jon watching her in total drunken confusion.

“Do you want the truth?” She plainly asked. Jon eagerly nodded his head.

“Honestly, I would be angry,” she admitted.

“Fuming actually. So furious that I would fantasise about different ways of getting my own back, thinking of as many ways as I could to get my revenge,” Alayne divulged, losing herself in the resurfaced anger. The situation Jon proposed was more relevant to her life than expected, worryingly so. But the way he explained himself made herself think that he didn’t know the truth about her.

Taking in a deep breath, she calmly continued, “But what can I do? I’m a lowly bastard from the Vale. I’m powerless. If I could do something I would.”

Her thoughts were brought back to Joffrey on that bridge. But that was another lifetime, Alayne, she thought. Another me.

She paused, thinking greatly about what she would do now, in this current state.

“Something I’ve found out is that anger subsides over time, it’s a temporary emotion,” she confided with a sigh, “Its a strong emotion but ultimately, doesn’t last forever.”

“Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person is die,” Alayne described, “It’s like holding onto a hot coal with the intent of throwing it, but instead it ends up burning you too.”

Jon’s enthusiastic gaze wavered as she spoke, until it dropped entirely. But that didn’t stop her. For what ever reason, she knew he had to hear this- at least once.

“The desire for revenge is replaced with a craving for justice.”

“And what is justice?” He inquired, staring at his feet.

“I don’t know, I’m not a philosopher,” she joked in an unsuccessful attempt to lighten the mood.

Jon unamused eyes didn’t leave the ground, so Alayne began to seriously ponder the question.

“Justice...Justice is doing what’s just, doing what’s right.”

She ignored a small scoff coming from Jon’s direction, and carried on answering the question.

“And that may or may not be getting whats rightfully yours. It all depends on how you get it. If you only get what’s owed to you through unjust means... then you’re just as bad as the people that took it away from you.”

“Real justice doesn’t require unjust acts,” she simply said.

Her mind flickered to Winterfell. I would take it as justly as I could, she thought. No civilians would suffer, it’s the Bolton’s and their supporters who have to pay for the betrayal.

“For far too long, the common people have been treated as collateral damage. Innocent people shouldn’t have to die for you to get what is owed to you, that’s just murder. Because that way, it was never amount justice, it was about personal gratification.”

Alayne fell silent. With Winterfell on the brain, her mind trailed off to theorise all the ways she could viably take it back.

What am I doing, she thought. Winterfell is not mine. Not mine. Not mine. Not my birthright which was stolen.

Jon nodded curtly, and took a long gulp from his cup.

“I appreciate the honesty.”

“Why do you ask?” Alayne bravely inquired.

He turned his head away from her, taking his time to answer. But Alayne didn’t mind. She watched him in the firelight, his skin shining, and the flames dancing in his eyes. He really is a Targaryen, she thought.

Until this moment, Alayne hadn’t realised just how beautiful he actually was. Handsome? Yes. Rugged? Of course. Manly? Absolutely. Beautiful? Apparently so.

“No reason.”

His response made it clear he wasn’t looking to continue the conversation. It seemed as though he got his answer, even if he didn’t really want to hear it.

Alayne didn’t know why she repeated the phrase to Jon but she did so regardless.

“There is no justice is this world, so you’re just going to have to make it.”

Jon didn’t reply, or give any hint at a response, but she knew he took in the message. It was silent for a long time after that, with only the fire and the wind rattling through the building to fill the vacuum. Sensing Jon’s eyes slyly move toward and rest on her, Alayne self-consciously traced the pattern on the arm of her chair with her index finger to occupy the time.

Biting her lip, she looked up to find him staring at her before speedily darting his eyes in the opposite direction. The corners of Alayne’s mouth upturned demurely.

“I gather that the meeting didn’t go too well,” she remarked.

Jon guffawed heartily.

“What gave it away?” He joked,  
gesturing to his goblet. She snorted loudly, and howled along with him.

“What are you drinking?” She wheezed, and with hurting sides, pointed to the empty jug on the floor.

“That was wine,” he answered, gesturing towards the jug.

“Right, and that is?”

“Why don’t you try?” he offered, holding out the cup for her.

As she took the goblet from him, she narrowed her eyes at it. The beer was the colour of deep amber, and smelt of nights in Winterfell with Ned Stark.

When she was little, Ned would read to her and Arya as a treat in his solar. With both girls in his strong arms, he read tales of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters (stories which both she and Arya mutually liked). By his side, he would have a cup of autumn beer and would slowly takes sips as the night went. Only Arya would pretend to like the small sips he allowed them both to try.

As opposed to black beer, Ned always drank autumn beer, which was more rare and acquired taste. She knew Robb and Theon used to guzzle down black beer like no tomorrow but she never knew what Jon preferred.

Frozen and unblinking, Alayne accurately guessed, “it’s autumn beer from White Harbour.”

“Aye,” Jon confirmed with a furrowed brow, “how does a Southern girl know that?”

She panicked. If it’s common for Northerners to drink it, it’s certainly unknown to most Southerners. Thinking quickly on the spot, she easily fabricated a lie, “I knew a Northern man in Gulltown who drank it. Its all he drank actually.”

Jon slowly nodded, eyebrows raised. She knew that he wanted to know more but she said nothing more on the matter.

Raising the cup to her lips, Alayne took a deep gulp. It wasn’t light ale, it was strong and for the purpose of getting intoxicated:

She don’t know why she even tried to drink it as she always despised ale. Perhaps she wanted wanted to prove herself more than a Southern softie, or a little lady. She’s a Alayne Stone, a bastard girl from Gulltown and soon to be Lady of the Vale.

As it slithered down her throat, she felt her insides warming up. It tasted better than she remembered, it wasn’t as bitter as she remembered, and this time, she didn’t even spit it out. It wasn’t great nor was it awful- she knew she could grow to like it. Alayne drank it down without batting an eye, and after she had her full, returned the goblet to a taken aback Jon. Smirking, she leaned back in her chair.

“So you’re more than just a pretty face,” he commented.

Feeling herself blush slightly, Alayne bit the inside of her cheek to keep down a coy smile.

“If I didn’t know better I’d say that you’re flirting with me, Jon Targaryen.”

“But you do,” He answered back, him leaning towards her. She didn’t know whether he was trying to smoulder but it defiantly looked that way.

“I do what?”

“Know better.”

His tone was as cocky as Harry’s would be, and the alcohol was causing his eyes to sleepily look only half open. She would be surprised if he could remember any of this in the morning.

She scoffed, “how much have you had to drink?”

He shrugged, “too much. I can’t feel my legs.”

She snickered, and went on to add, “well coming back to the negotiations, all I know is that the meeting couldn’t have gone well if Harry had walked out.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Harry came to me as soon as he walked out.”

“Ah. Harold met you, of course he did. Your betrothed,” he sighed.

Alayne found it funny how he always insisted on called him Harold. Rolling her eyes at his immaturity, she reached out for the beer again.

“You do realise that I didn’t have any say marrying him. Our relatives decided it, it’s not like he proposed,” she snorted.

With a preoccupied look, he passed the goblet over as if lost in thought.

“Organised betrothal...” Jon mused, his voice pensive.

Alayne nodded along slowly, taking small sips of beer, but not quite understanding what he was getting at.

“I might possibly have to marry my aunt Daenerys,” Jon confessed, swallowing hard and avoiding eye contact.

“Oh.” Alayne mumbled.

“Aye.”

His voice was solemn, almost defeated. But Alayne still didn’t understand.

“And this is a bad thing?” She affirmed with a furrowed brow.

“I heard that she’s the most beautiful woman to have walked the earth or something, and you don’t want her?”

Jon scoffed, seemingly offended. “You don’t get it,” he stated, now rubbing his temples.

Alayne didn’t understand. Isn’t that what all men want, a pretty face? What was so awful about Daenerys that even her beauty couldn’t persuade Jon to marry her?

“Is it because you’re related?” She asked frankly; and with a simple shrug, continued, “The Targaryens used to marry brother and sister.”

Jon didn’t reply, only shifted uncomfortably in his seat. She had to get to the root of the issue, she had to know more.

“You could do worse, you know.”

Still no reply. Alayne fell silent too, and she began to fiddle with the embroidery on her skirts.

“Besides,” she muttered, “you’d be a pretty formidable pair... she might be able to unite the South and you controlling the North.”

“What makes you say that?” Jon quickly interjected, leaning forward in his seat.

“Because you’re a Stark,” she explained as though it were obvious, “and the North will always bend to a Stark.”

“I’m not a Stark.” Jon sighed bitterly, moving back into his previous casual position and snatching back his goblet.

Alayne snorted and rolled her eyes before she looked up at him, “Yes you are; you’re mother was one.”

“And my father was a Targaryen. Trust me on this, Miss Stone. I know Northerners and they don’t want any sort of Targaryen.”

Alayne stifled a laugh. If only he knew. And besides, trust him? As if she could trust anyone anymore.

“Anyway, the Bolton’s have the North now. So it doesn’t just follow under Stark control,” he huffed.

Why was he rejecting his Stark heritage this much? He always denied it when being a bastard but why is he carrying on?Did he hate them the whole time, she wondered to herself. Did he hate them just like Theon did? Alayne couldn’t bear to think any deeper on it.

“I never said that the North only follows the Starks,” she corrected him grumpily.

“And besides, only some of the North has bent to the Bolton’s...” Alayne mumbled, “All of the North would bend to a Stark.”

“They wouldn’t bend to me- end of story.” Jon snapped, taking a large swing of ale.

“Well, as all the other Starks are dead, I suppose you’re a bit stuck then,” she growled, getting frustrated at his stubbornness.

“No, they’re not,” he sharply informed her.

A flat, “what?” had slipped out from her lips before she realised she even said it.

Speechless, Alayne was unable to reply at such a revelation. She didn’t know whether she was about to faint, vomit or demand answers. Perhaps all three?

Her mouth dried up, making it painful for her to swallow. She tried to moisten it again in order to speak, but to no avail.  
All it did was choke her.

She only had one choice; put on a show.

And then she told herself something that she hadn’t had to say in a long time. I am Alayne Stone of Gulltown. I am the bastard daughter of Lord Peter Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale. I am 18 years old and I live in the Eeyrie. And I am safe as long as I remember who I am.

She repeated the mantra over and over as Jon started to impart details.

“They’re not dead...not all of them anyway,” he added, not stopping to look at her, or judge what she were thinking.

“Arya, well, she went missing. But I don’t think she’s dead,” he confessed, shaking his head. “I would know if she was. She’s tough, tougher than most. She must be alive out there. She must be.”

Arya... Alayne hated herself for how it ended with her, in her old life. She would want nothing more than to amend things with Arya Stark.

However, not wanting to get her hopes up, Alayne objected, “But that’s based off presumption. And no one knows about the others either.”

“Well, yes, I suppose with Arya it is presumption,” he conceded, “But with the boys we do know. Last I heard, Bran is over the Wall, and Rickon is on the Isle of Skagos.”

Sickness began to intrude again. Refusing to look at Jon, Alayne instead focused on the floor.

“I- I thought the Greyjoy boy burnt them,” Alayne sputtered.

“Theon burnt two rural farm boys,” Jon explained sorrowfully, “and claimed they were Bran and Rickon.”

“How do you know for certain?” She interrogated.

“Because, my friend Sam met Bran at the Wall,” Jon answered earnestly.

“Sam is a brother from the Watch, and someone I trust entirely. He met Bran at Nightfort, a station on the Wall, and that’s where Bran told him everything.”

Alayne held her breath, clutching onto Jon’s every word like smoke in the wind.

“Sam was travelling back South, and Bran was passing through, heading North. He said something about a magic raven, with three eyes or something,” Jon scrunched his face as he remembered the details, “Apparently, he might have green-sight.”

Bran...beyond the Wall? The Bran she knew was a sweet summer child, a boy who longed to be a Southern Knight; not freezing beyond the Wall in search for some raven.

Alayne began to worry furiously at the idea of the vulnerable boy involving himself such things. From Old Nan’s tales, she knew magic and green sight to be a dangerous thing. She wanted to weep... the two boys separated is a terrible thing.

“He’s with two of Lord Howland Reed’s children, the frog people of the Neck,” Jon paused, “oh, and Hodor.”

All Alayne could muster was a nod in reply. She knew that Ned Stark and Howland Reed were very close friends, trustees even. It was a relief to have people protecting Bran, and that Reed still honoured his friendship with Stark.

“Hodor is a simple man from Winterfell,” Jon elaborated, “but he’s very big, huge even. Bran...Bran had a fall, so he’s paralysed from the waist down. Hodor helps him move.”

Alayne could remember Hodor. One might think he were terrifying at a glance, but he were a gentle soul really. She could recall a time when, as a little girl, she made the simple man a crown of flowers as she played in the godswood. Arya, and the boys laughed upon seeing the enormous man wearing such a dainty little thing, but the giant didn’t take it off for the whole day, which made her burst with pride.

Hodor would never intentionally harm anyone. Bran is alive, and surrounded by trusted people; that’s all she needed to know for now.

“I know what it’s like Beyond the Wall. There’s no way of finding him,” he asserted with a hint of guilt in his voice.

“I understand.”

If Jon hated the Starks then maybe it’s best that Bran remained hidden. This new rush of information felt as though a huge weight had been lifted slightly. Feeling brave enough to look Jon in the eye, he gave her a smile which lasted a bit too long.

“A-and Rickon is with a wildling woman on the Isle of Skagos,” He stammered.

Alayne winced. Skagos. Taking note of her discomfort, Jon swiftly assured, “we know that he is alive. It’s just locating him which is the problem. We have had many excursions but the Skagosi aren’t friendly.”

That didn’t ease her mind one bit. Skagos was the Isle of Savages and Cannibals- not a place where little Rickon should be. How old is he now? 10, she thought, answering her own question. She knew that he wouldn’t be able to remember his family, and pitied greatly. He wouldn’t even be able to remember his own mother.

Alayne nodded again, following onto his every word and expecting to hear more. But nothing came. Sansa hadn’t ever been confirmed dead, she was missing just like Arya. And yet, he didn’t say a word about the girl.

Alayne’s gaze faltered as the reality set in. He wasn’t going to mention Sansa at all, it’s like she never existed. Stupidly, Alayne felt herself becoming emotional again and to avoid showing it, she fixed her gaze onto her hands in her lap.

The two of them were not extremely close but did he hate Sansa this much?

It would be better if he did forget about her, Alayne pointed out. But this didn’t help the way she was feeling. She had to ask about Sansa, she had to find out what he knew.

“Wasn’t there another girl?” She asked as calmly as possible, still fiddling with her hands so she didn’t have to look at him directly.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him freeze.

“Sansa. Yes.” He took a deep breath.

“What happened to her?” She followed up, biting her lip.

“Dead. A girl like her doesn’t last long out on her own,” Jon said, flat and emotionless.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Part of her was relieved that he thought Sansa was dead. It helped protect her. But another part felt awfully guilty.

“It’s alright. I don’t talk about her.”

It was that statement which made her turn her head. She could feel tears welling in her eyes. Not looking at her, Jon focused on his goblet. The way he spoke about her made her feel as though she could burst into hysterical sobs right where she sat.

“Tell me about yourself, Alayne, ” Jon asked out of no where.

“Hmm?” She replied, blinking away the tears in her eyes.

“Tell me about yourself,” he repeated.

“There’s nothing much to know.” She responded, looking up at him with a forced, close-mouthed smile.

“My mother was a whore from Gulltown, where I was born and raised,” she easily lied, having told the story time and time again.

“I was thirteen when my mother died, and that’s when my father took me under his wing. Gulltown is a great city, but still, moving from there to here was a pretty big jump.”

“I’m sorry about your mother,” Jon solemnly said.

A pang of guilt flooded through her again, and she whispered a simple, “thank you.”

Nodding slowly, Jon then carefully asked, “So, you grew up in a brothel?”

Alayne gave him a blank stare. Oh here we go, she thought in disgust. Why is that men always pay attention to that detail. They always think I will be more sexually open because of it.

She could recall Harry’s gross presumptions, and his questions after he was informed of her childhood. She supposed that he hadn’t forgotten either.

“Yes.”

However, his answer was pleasantly surprised her.

“And I’m sorry for that too. I can’t imagine that it must have been a nice place to grow up.”

He has this sweet, sincere look in his eyes which almost glinted in the fire light. His kind reaction made her feel bad for lying to him again. She almost wished he were an ass about it.

“It wasn’t so awful,” she rushed to explain.

“It’s nice of your father to do that,” he added, “I mean, he could have left to have the same fate as your mother.”

“Yes, it was,” she agreed, smiling faintly.

“I wouldn’t have turned to prostitution though. I’d have married rich, or become a spinster.”

“I’m sure men would fight over you,” he flattered, raising his eyebrows. Alayne playfully rolled her eyes.

“But how did he come to know of your existence?” He questioned further.

“He owned the brothel she worked in,” she explained flawlessly, “he suspected I were his the moment my mother became pregnant. She wasn’t a whore at that point, you see, less chance of it being someone else’s.”

Jon nodded, a took a sip from his cup.

“And he knew I were his sure when I was named Alayne.”

“What do you mean?”

“Alayne was my paternal grandmother,” she answered, “not that I ever met her.”

“Alayne is a pretty name,” Jon complimented, and then went on to inquire, “what was your mother like?”

“What-what was she like?” Alayne reiterated, blinking far too much as she thought over the question.

“She...she was the perfect mother, so doting and loving. And clever, cleverer than any man I’ve ever met. She would have done anything for me, and she did,” she reminisced, “Apparently, I look exactly as she did in her youth.”

Alayne could feel her face lighting up as she spoke about her mother, and Jon smiled back, watching her with keen interest.

“Do you have any other relatives? Half- siblings?” Jon asked, leaning forward on his elbow.

“None.” She said, her tone matter of fact more than sad.

“Robin technically is your step brother.” He suggested, cocking his head to the side.

“I suppose he is,” Alayne agreed, smiling to herself at just the thought of the little man.

“You care a lot for the boy I can tell.” Jon murmured.

Alayne nodded. “I’m his mother, father, sister and brother. I’m all he has, and someone has to be there for him- he’s a sensitive soul after all.”

Jon shook his head and chuckled to himself. Alayne thought his laugh rather pretty, and she liked the way he eyes crinkled around the corners when he did. What am I thinking, she thought, what has that beer done to me?

“What?” She demanded.

“It’s just,” he chuckled, “how can someone so lovely come from such a horrible man?”

“You don’t like my father.” Alayne sighed with raised eyebrows, looking down at her lap.

Jon snorted, and took a swig of beer.

“Who does?”

“He saved me,” she admitted, fiddling with her fingers again. And that were the real truth, for Peter Baelish did, in a way, save her. When Jon didn’t reply after a while, she looked up and found in staring at her, as if into her soul.

“When you put it like that...”

Squinting his eyes, he asked again, “Are you sure we haven’t met?”

“You have drank far too much,” Alayne joked, attempting to use humour as a cover.

As she reached over him in an attempt to snatch the goblet out of his hand, Jon pulled his arm back just in time. She supposed his warrior reflexes were still impeccable even if he were incapacitated. Closer to him than ever before, she could feel his body heat; and smell the alcohol on his breath as well as the sweet- scented oil in his hair and beard.

Now almost nose to nose, they momentarily stared at each other in a state of disbelief at what just happened. But soon realising that the more he looked into her Riverland eyes, the more danger she was in of Jon recognising her. Consequently, Alayne pulled away and sunk back into her seat.

“So, the meeting fell to shit; the Vale still hates you, and you have to marry your aunt,” she surmised matter of factly, counting each point off her fingers.

“And currently,” Alayne continued, “you’re moping in an old library, drinking with a random bastard girl.”

“Pretty much.”

There were a second of silence before they simultaneously burst into hysterics, most probably caused by stress and sleep deprivation.

“It’s not as bad as having to marry _Harold Hardying,_ ” Jon teased, putting on a stuffy southern accent when saying his name.

Alayne bit her cheek to push down a smile, and tried to give Jon an unamused look. He raised his eyebrows at her playfully, a grin spreading across his face.

“He isn’t as awful as you think.”

“Oh well,” Jon declared, “you would say that, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh?” She challenged.

“It’s because he’s handsome, and charming and a Lord.”

Alayne scoffed and shook her head, “Well, you’ve got me all figured out, haven’t you?”

She smirked, and gave him a wink.

“Oh, I haven’t got you figured out at all. Not one bit,” he breathed, gazing into her eyes so intently it made her tummy flip.

“And I’m being serious,” he continued, “I can’t see any other reason why anyone would want to marry him.”

“Young, rich and pretty...Those are all good reasons,” Alayne suggested, watching Jon as he opened his mouth to protest, “That’s a far better list than what most women get anyway.”

He shut his mouth pretty quickly after that.

“You could do better,” he concluded quietly after a while.

“So could you,” Alayne quipped. Both of them understood who she was talking about. He looked into his cup again, and gave a short sigh.

“Hasn’t he fathered a few bastards and abandoned the mothers?” Jon questioned, not looking up at her.

“Having bastards is much more common when you’re a man.”

She didn’t know why she was defending Harry of all people, but she was. Maybe because if anything, Harry is her friend and she defends her friends. Or maybe, said an intrusive thought, you like the rapport with Jon.

He huffed, and turned his head away from her so she couldn’t see his face. Alayne laughed at his childish reaction.

“What?” She asked with a cheeky grin, “It is very easy to father a bastard. I am a woman, I do know of these things.”

With Jon still not showing his face, she couldn’t see how exactly he reacted. His silence was deafening, however, and Alayne’s brazenness soon disappeared. She supposed the topic of bastards was sensitive for him.

“He only has two children,” she began to explain more seriously, “They’re both back at his home. He doesn’t see the children but he pays for their monthly upkeep. And the mothers are cared for too.

“Oh well isn’t that just wonderful,” he exclaimed sarcastically.

“He’s a noble, and the heir to the Vale. He’s done all he feasibly can. What do you expect?”

He paused, probably trying unsuccessfully to come up with an counter argument. Jon turned his head to look at her, and with a frown on his face he stubbornly mumbled, “I still don’t like him.”

In that moment, he was the Jon which she remembered him to be; the moody boy with a constant scowl. And she couldn’t help but beam at him. Leaning in closer until she saw a smile creep on his face, Alayne joked, “Well its a good thing you’re not marrying him then isn’t it, Jon?”

“I like it when you call me Jon. Hardly anyone does anymore,” he said whimsically, blinking softly at her. She hadn’t actually meant to, it kind of just slipped out. Still, she remained silent.

They both stared into each other’s eyes for what felt like a millennia. And she now knew, for the rest of her life, those eyes will be the last thing she sees in the darkness before she falls asleep at night. Those damned Stark eyes.

Jon had always been a man of very few words, all Northmen were but she hadn’t spoken that language in a long time.

Trying to decipher the true meaning of his words was turning out to be harder than she thought. In order to know the subtext of what he was saying, she had to know his motive. And no matter how desperately she scrambled for any piece of information, she still had no idea who he was. Because what did she know of his heart?

_You think this is my happy ending?_

He nervously raised a hand to her face, as if to caress her cheek. Just as she felt herself moving towards him, he stopped himself. Scrunching his hand into a fist, he dropped it by his side twice as quickly as it rose. And as his hand fell, so did his gaze.

“Jon,” she breathed.

“Mmhmm”

“Can I ask you something?”

Alayne bit down on her lip as she anxiously waited for his reply. Jon looked up at her, now with a concerned look in his eye.

“Of course,” he solemnly replied.

“At the Feast-“

“Oh, I’m sorry about that argument with Harold,” He interjected, slurring his words a little as he hurried to finish, “I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

“No, no,” she assured him, “it wasn’t about that.”

Jon furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand.”

Starting again, Alayne asked, “at the feast, you said that this wasn’t your happy ending. What makes you feel that way?”

Silence. Jon swallowed, and leaned back in his chair. Maybe even he didn’t really know the answer. Alayne watched him as he licked his lips, his drunk mind struggling to find the words.

Either asking him this question when he was drunk was stupid, or a stroke of genius. She hoped it would be the latter.

Staring out into the fire, he started to explain himself, “All I’ve ever wanted, is to be accepted for who I am.”

“Not for who my father might or might not have been, or my mother for that matter. Not for where I grew up, trained or lived. But for who I truly am, inside.

“Everyone wants, expects, me to be something different. A Stark. A Targaryen. A Brother. A Crow. A bastard. A King.”

He shook his head and sighed. Leaning forward in his chair, Jon sighed and then put his head in his hands.

“I don’t want power. I want to help people. I want to live a peaceful life. I want to feel like I’m doing the right thing but I really don’t feel like I am.”

“And everything is going by so fast, I can’t keep track of what’s right anymore. It’s like every step I take is the wrong one. “

“And I say that I don’t want people to project this image onto me of who they think I am but I don’t even know who I am anymore. How can I ask to be accepted for who I am, if I don’t even know? Maybe there’s nothing left of me.”

He paused and then shook his head, as if he were coming out of his truthful trance and into reality again. With tears welled in her eyes, Alayne turned her attentions to the blurry flames, and allowed them to silently fall.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he added.

“No. I do. I do understand.”

They sat without speaking for a while, she didn’t know how long for. She was too deep in thought, overthinking all the new information, to keep track. Alayne was too in her own head to notice Jon watching her.

“If you bend the knee, Dany could legitimise you,” he offered, interrupting the peaceful silence. “You wouldn’t have to be a bastard. You can be Alayne Baelish not Alayne Stone.”

Is this how he thinks he’ll win the Vale? Did he think she had that much influence here?

Alayne snorted. “And why would I want to do that?” She asked, turning to face him once again.

“Because you wouldn’t have to live as a bastard anymore.” Jon answered her flatly, as if it was obvious. “You could inherit your father’s title, wealth and land.”

Alayne, smiling softly, sighed, “Oh Jon.”

“What?” He insisted, as if not part of an inside joke.

“What difference does a name make? Ramsay Bolton was legitimised by Joffrey. Gendry Waters was legitimised by Daenerys. It’s just a name.”

Alayne continued, “What will I inherit anyway? The Fingers?”

She snickered, “Well, sign me up! I can’t miss out on that prime real estate!”

Jon went silent and began to pout the way he did as a child.

“Why is the world is black and white to you? You know Jon, there are advantages to being a bastard and there are even more advantages to being underestimated,” she pointed out.

“Well that’s easy for you to say,” he huffed and turned away from her “You’ve been treated like a legitimate child by everyone here. No one deems you lesser.”

Alayne tried to not laugh. She could never take Jon seriously when he throws a tantrum.

“Oh Jon don’t act as if you were mistreated or abused!” Alayne blurted, now she couldn’t hide her growing grin.

“You grew up better than most; in a warm castle, food always in your belly and a loving family around you.”

“Oh, I forgot you’re engaged! You’re going to be a Hardying anyway so forget I said anything!”

He sounded bitter, tinged with embarrassment. She felt bad at seeing his wounded face. Alayne hadn’t meant to hurt him; she would never want to hurt him.

Leaning forward, Alayne put her hand on his shoulder and felt the tension within them melt away.

“Thank you, Jon, for the offer. It really was kind and thoughtful of you.”

Turning his head to look at the hand on his shoulder, Jon blinked slowly, and then followed the hand, up her arm, until landing on her eyes.

“By the way, Miss Stone, I would have done it if you wanted to.”

His voice was as smooth as honey, and his smile sweet enough to turn Alayne’s insides soft. And his demeanour was warm enough to thaw her icy insides. It was moments like these which made her heart stop.

“Call me Alayne,” she breathed, not quite realising how long she went without air after he smiled at her like that.

“If I didn’t know better, I would say that we’re becoming good friends,” he whispered, his words escaping into the darkness.

Alayne flashed a smile at him as she predictably replied with, “but you do know better.”

And in that moment, she didn’t know whether it was only her who could feel it, but there was something between them. It was like some sort of magnetism, compelling them together. And it wasn’t like what she and Harry had. This felt natural and raw-instinctual. Almost as if the universe were forcing them together, willing for it to happen. Seemingly, Jon could feel it too as they both leant into each other, bridging the gap between them.

It was only a wolf howl in the distance, making Jon jump, which disturbed them. But it didn’t scare Alayne. Instead, she felt it; as if it was calling to her, loud and clear.

The howling of the mountain wolves used to make her feel so alone, and totally isolated in the sky castle. It was as though she were a princess from the stories trapped in a high tower. But now, that had changed. It was a comforting feeling. The wolves weren’t eerily watching from a distance, as spectators to her pain, but were behind her, ready to catch her if she fell.

Jon noticed how she didn’t jump at the wolves and she saw a flicker of admiration in his eye.

“I think that’s our cue to go to bed.”

“Let me escort you,” Jon kindly volunteered.

Confidently, Jon stood up from his seat but quickly toppled over, falling flat on his face. Alayne giggled as Jon only managed a soft ‘ow’.

“Come on, you drunkard. Let me escort you,” she grunted, struggling to lift him up. Alayne thought she was strong but Jon was far heavier than he looked.

Placing his arm around her shoulder, and her arm around his waist, they made their way out he library with Jon using Alayne as his support. She had totally forgotten about the books she had to tried so discreetly return, and they were left discarded on the side table.

The walk to the guests’ wing was somewhat far, and Alayne soon was out of breath. Jon’s head lolled from side to side uncontrollably as though he were a marionette. And it was silent between them until he spoke.

“Sansa was lovely, in every way,” he blurted, his speech slurred.

Alayne, supporting Jon’s body weight as they made their way down all those steps, couldn’t afford to look at him. Instead, she faced ahead, walking slowly but listening.

“She was a kind girl- too gentle and compassionate for this world. And she was smart too, much smarter than me or Robb.”

His voice began to quiver at every growing sentence. Alayne had figured Jon had reached the emotional stage of drunkness.

“We were all jealous of her in different ways. Even Arya, though she would never admit it but we all knew it to be true. Maybe Sansa didn’t though. And of course, she was the pretty one.”

Jon whispered the last sentence, as he felt guilty for saying it. Alayne was shocked at what was coming out of his mouth, but didn’t react for she wanted to know everything he had to say.

“Sansa was wary of me, always wanting to stay on her mother’s good side. And perhaps she was right to... but she was never cruel to me, or mean. We even had fun together.”

Alayne could hear the smile on Jon’s face as he reminisced.

“On a couple of occasions we would talk for a while. I would sit and watch her hands work as she embroidered something ever so delicately, and she would chat with me.”

“That’s nice.” Alayne mumbled, a patting his middle as she held him up. Jon didn’t seem to hear, however. He carried on with this train of thought, as if he might loose it at any moment.

“I used to watch her sometimes, from a distance,” Jon confessed.

“I watched her as she prayed in the godswood, as she practised the high harp or as she brushed out Lady’s fur, singing to herself. Her voice was almost as beautiful as her.”

Alayne heard a crack in his voice, and didn’t say anything further; only allowing him to sit in his feelings for a while longer. Not knowing how to react to this information, she carried on marching forward; and didn’t realise that she were crying until she felt a tear tickle her neck.

After some time, Alayne had managed to haul Jon all the way back to the guests’ wing where he and his party were staying. With her knowledge of the Eeyrie’s layout, she guessed that he would be situated in the grandest suite, which meant that we she able to make her way without having to embarrassingly knock on doors.

Balancing Jon on the doorframe, she used her free hand turn the handle. With a nudge of her hip, she was able to open the door.

His room was not as messy as she expected. Remembering how his and Robb’s room used to always look like, Alayne thought she would find clothes strewn about the place, along with muddy boots and dirty socks. But instead all his things were folded neatly and stacked together in small piles. Perhaps it’s the institutionalisation from the Nights Watch, she guessed. Or perhaps he’s finally grown up.

Struggling under Jon’s weight, Alayne flung him on the bed with all her might, very narrowly avoiding banging his head on the headboard. Before she left to find help, she turned Jon into his side- just to make sure. And as she walked out, she could hear him mumble under his breath, “you know nothing, Jon Snow.”

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellllllloooooo!  
> This is the Alayne’s POV to Jon’s bit at the end of the last chapter. She’s sober, so she remembers everything (unlike Jon). I’m sorry if there’s typos, and that it’s been a long time since I’ve posted. I just hope that everyone enjoys it and that it’s at least cohesive lol. Plus, I had to add the typical fan fic ‘orbs’ in there, don’t judge. It felt fun to add in an early 2010s fan fic moment.  
> Lots of love xox


	8. The Plan Comes Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne and her father plan what’s to happen after Jon leaves. However, Jon is still dealing with the logistical implications of the previous night.

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“Good morning, father!” Alayne chirped, pacing into the dining room with a light spring in her step. 

Instead of her normal breakfast attire of a nightgown and thick house coat; Alayne has carefully chosen to wear a royal blue dress, in which would bring out the colour of her eyes her father adored so. 

Since the early of hours of the morning, Alayne lay in bed, agonisingly planning how she were to approach her father with her new proposal. For today was to be the day in which her life would change forever. 

First to the breakfast table, as per usual, was Petyr Baelish, chomping down his food most ungraciously; his head in various papers. 

Curiously, however, Petyr’s head jolted up, his eyes falling upon his daughter as soon as she so entered the room. And whatever document was in his hand was, unusually, ignored. 

Alayne knew her father better than anyone, and she was able to recognise his tell signs. She observed the way he visibly took notice of her dress, the delicate way she styled her hair- even the way she carried herself as she made her way around the table to her usual seat. His eyes never left her. 

Petyr Baelish was many things, but a dim-wit her certainly was not. He knew something was amiss, and that’s exactly what she wanted. Biting her lip to hide a small smirk, she wanted to laugh over the predictability of men. 

But as the silence continued, the atmosphere became more unsettling; and the need to hide a smirk became obsolete. If it weren’t for the scraping of knives and forks as she plated up her breakfast, the room would have been quiet enough to have heard a pin drop. Feeling awkward and self-conscious, Alayne feigned ignorance, acting as if she hadn’t noticed her father’s glare- like it was any normal morning.

It was her father who broke the silence, greeting her with an innocent smile, “Good morning, Alayne.”

Swallowing the feeling of dread that started to fester in the pit of her stomach, she turned to face him and beamed, reflecting the false innocence he too was trying to plead.   
“How are you this morning?” Petyr questioned, setting his papers and cutlery to one side in order to prop his elbows on the table. Pensively, he brought his hands together in front of him, his fingers forming little triangles.

She blinked at him, willing every bone in her body to shield her true emotions; and with a sweet smile, she calmly answered, “I am very well, father. You?”  
Nonchalantly, Alayne grabbed the jug beside her, and began to pour some fruit juice into her cup.   
“Likewise… although...I would expect you to be at least somewhat tired considering your last late night activities.”

If it were anyone else watching her, they wouldn’t have picked up on the way she froze momentarily, almost causing the cup to overflow. But it was Petyr Baelish who was surveyed her, so of course he picked up on it. 

Alayne wanted to grunt, to roll her eyes and to exclaim in frustration- how is he always one step ahead?! 

But, sensibly settling for saying some choice words in her head, she carefully placed the jug back down on the table. 

He knows, she told herself, but he wants to hear it from you- he wants to know if you’re going to lie to him. Turning back to face him, she exasperatedly started to begin, “Father, I can explain-“ 

A single raised finger was all she needed to silence her mid sentence. 

Petyr choked out a laugh, shaking his head, “Did you really think that I wouldn’t find out?”

“An empty wineskin smelling of autumn beer, a jug of red wine, and two rare story books were left discarded in front of a small fireplace in the First Library, Alayne.” 

Baelish smiled, mouth closed and strained. Gesturing with his arms around him, he continued, his tone sickly sweet, “Darling, there is nothing that goes on this castle that I don’t know about.”

The change in tone is what made her panic- whenever he father becomes too kind or sweet is when she knew something bad was going to happen. And it is for that reason why she sputtered out a rushed explanation, “Father! I was going to tell you, I was going to tell you everything. That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about this morning.”

Petyr squinted, his eyes darting down to her dress, as if finally understanding the real reason as to why she was wearing it. 

“Enlighten me then, sweet one.”  
Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, Alayne explained, “I was returning some books…”  
   
Looking down at her hands, she admitted, “books that I shouldn’t have taken,” she snapped her head up to clarify,  “I secretly took them because Robin wanted to read them and I promised him and I couldn’t break a promise, not to him and so I thought-“ 

“Calm down, my dear,” Petyr cooed, raising his hand to her cheek and stroking her cheekbone with his thumb, “You’re not in trouble for the books.” 

Alayne swallowed. So I am in trouble then, she worried to herself. 

With no way of getting out of it, she closed her eyes and started again, “I was in the library late at night, to return the books, you see. And that’s when I came across Jon.”

“Came across?” Petyr questioned, his hand at her cheek dropped.   
“He was sat in the library, drinking. I don’t know how long he was there for, but he was already drunk by the time I found him. I think he had already drunk a whole jug of red wine…I didn’t plan on meeting him.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Petyr lied, “I would never think you would do such a thing.”  
Alayne paused to look at him, feeling hurt by the accusation. He really thought her, and Jon were in cahoots, didn’t he? But why would she do such a thing considering the danger Jon was to her? He knew better than anyone of much of a threat he is.  

And she hadn’t done anything wrong, not really. So why did she feel like she had? 

Moreso, why was she so worried about hurting the feelings of someone who didn’t care if he hurt hers? 

“And we got talking,” Alayne continued, more cautiously this time, keeping more cards to herself.

“About…?” Petyr furthered, too in his own head to notice Alayne’s changed demeanour. 

Purposely avoiding the topic of revenge, or his outrageous flirting, she replied with simply, “He asked about me...and my relationship to Harry.”

“And what did you say?” Petyr asked, his voice wholly incongruent with the harsh glare he was giving her.  

With a knowing look, she answered, “I told him the truth, father. I told him about my mother in Gulltown, and how you brought me here after she died. I told him that Harry and I were engaged.” 

“Good,” he sighed, relaxing back in his seat.   
Alayne was astounded by the lack of faith he had in her. He really didn’t trust her, did he?   
Finally able to silence her rumbling tummy, she tucked into her breakfast. she being able to tuck into her breakfast, she was able to silence her rumbling tummy. Once the initial early morning hunger pangs had left, she started to get to work on the her demands from her father, and the word play that was to come.   
Looking down at the food on her fork, Alayne mentioned, “He told me that he is set to be engaged to his aunt, Daenerys Targaryen.” 

Taking a bite, Alayne could hear Petyr’s breath by her side falter slightly. And from the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she caught his lip quiver. 

“And what did he say about that?” Petyr asked as innocently as a man like himself could. 

Alayne swallowed her food before tiring to face her father, “Honestly,” she voiced with a shrug, “I don’t think he wants to. But he will, if he must.”  
Nodding to himself, Petyr looked away, becoming absorbed by his thoughts. Alayne watched him keenly, and without taking her eyes off him, she took a sip of juice. 

“And he spoke of the Starks,” Alayne added, squinting her eyes at him to gauge his reaction.   
What she had just said has snatched him away from his thoughts, and his eyes darted to match hers. Alayne tried to read his expression, and perhaps saw a hint of panic but she didn’t know why exactly.

“They’re not dead,” she reported, watching him closely, “not all of them anyway.”   
Petyr sputtered an unintelligible and barely cohesive reply out of pure shock. Alayne interjected, already knowing what information he was going to demand anyway. 

“What he knows for certain is that Bran and Rickon are still alive. And as for Arya, he couldn’t confirm anything but he has a gut feeling she’s still out there, somewhere.” 

And Alayne would trust the Starks and their gut feelings with her life.

Baelish scoffed, rolling his eyes whilst repeating, “Gut-feeling.”   
“And how do you know he isn’t lying?” he continued, leaning forward in his chair insistently, “If they are alive, where are they and why haven’t they made themselves known?”  
“He may well be, father,” Alayne admitted, raising her eyebrows at him, “but I never knew Jon to be a liar.”

Her words silencing her father, Petyr leaned back in his seat, eyes sharp enough to cut through iron. Alayne knew that he didn’t like it when she refers to who she used to be, and downright hated when she spoke of other men so familiarly. 

He’s going to have to get used to that now, she thought to herself. 

“He claimed that Bran is over the Wall, and Rickon is on the Isle of Skagos.” 

Not usually so willing to share information such as this, Alayne only divulged the details because Petyr was her only hope of finding the two boys. 

“Skagos?” He questioned with furrowed brow. 

She nodded, watching him curiously, wishing she could see the inner workings of his mind. 

Petyr Baelish gave little away but she knew some of his tells. The way his lips were slightly pursed, and how his eye was twitching told her all she needed to know for now. This information had greatly perturbed him. 

Petyr swallowed. 

“And Sansa?”  
Without missing a beat, she hurried to assure her father, “Dead. He said that Sansa’s dead.”

Petyr nodded, a little too much for Alayne to think he was as calm inside as he presented on the outside. 

“Is there anything else I should know about, sweetling?”  
The next few words were about to leave her mouth would change her life forever. But she had to ask, its what honour demands. Her hands shook so terribly, Alayne took to hiding them under the table as not to show fear.  
“We were talking, about the North, and he said that they would never bend to him, because he’s a Targaryen.” She began, biting her lip.

“Mhmmm,” was Petyr’s only reply. He knew her too well, and he knew that she was building up to something. The minute she entered the room, looking as beautiful as she did, she was building up to a proposal.   
“He explained that the North, the whole North,” she clarified cautiously, “would only bend to a true born Stark.”   
Taking in a deep breath, Alayne could feel her heart in her throat as it pounded away, it’s beat filling up her ears. She wouldn’t be surprised if her father could hear it too.   
“So, I think,” Alayne murmured, unable to look her father in the eye, “it’s time for Sansa to reappear again.”

Not waiting for a question, or protest, she explained herself, “The North needs a Stark, and we have one. The North deserves to be independent.”

It hurt her to think of the betrayal at the Twins, but she forced herself to. Robb Stark died for the Northern cause. Catelyn, Greywind and thousands of Northerners all died so the North would never have to bend again. They deserved an independent North.   
“A united North is the only way we could attempt to overthrow the Dragon Queen.  With Sansa, we could have the North, the Vale and the Riverlands under our belt if we wanted. “  
Finally meeting her father’s eye, she reiterated, “We need Sansa, Petyr.” 

His face gave nothing away, and if he didn’t reply, she wouldn’t have known he had even heard her. 

“I concur.”  
Finally being able to exhale, Alayne could feel the huge weight lifting. And the relief was like that of an adrenaline rush; she wanted to cheer, to jump up for joy but she did nothing. Her only defence was an icy exterior, and that was her weapon of choice.   
“But, if we are doing this,” Petyr added, causing Alayne’s heart to falter, “Sansa and Harry need to marry pretty much as soon as Jon leaves.”   
She blinked at him before nodding, “That is perfectly fine.”

A prompt wedding was to be expected, but hearing it spoken into words had shocked her. After years of waiting, in a couple of days she was to be Sansa Hardying...

The name didn’t sound as pleasant as she thought it would, as so put that to one side, instead focusing on the notion that perhaps this time next week, she would be marching for Winterfell with an army behind her.  
“And we shall have to lie to Jon,” he eyed her as he emphasised, “you will have to lie to Jon.” 

Alayne nodded. 

“Daenerys mustn’t find out before the wedding...But the news of Sansa Stark’s return will spread around the continent like wildfire. You have to be safe, guarded and in an unknown location when that time comes.”   
She swallowed, her throat feeling tighter than she remembered. This was the great game she was playing, and had been playing since the age of eleven but for four years, she played dormant. However, this time she entered herself willingly, and the familiar feeling of terror flooded back. Death was becoming a real possibility again. 

Alayne had figured that she would have to lie to Jon at some point, but that doesn’t mean that she felt any better about doing it. And for the first time did she truly wish Jon loved her the way he loved Arya, then everything might be different. 

Solemnly, she agreed, “That can be done too.”

He reached under the table to grab her hands, and in her lap, Petyr interlocked them as tight as a sailors knot. 

“Everything I do Alayne, is for you. I aim to serve you. But if we are going to do this properly, you have to trust me. Follow me and do as I say- no questions asked.”  
She paused, looking at the spot on the table where their hands lay underneath and then back into her fathers green eyes, hypnotic and cat-like. Her gut screamed and shouted at her words of warning, but she had no choice.

She had to do this; for Bran, Rickon and, if she’s still out there, for Arya. 

“Yes, Petyr.”   
A smile twisted from the corner of his lips at her reply, his teeth bared like a wild animal and his eyes dark.   
“Then it shall be done,” he announced, “Sansa shall return, and in time, Winterfell will be ours.”   
Giving her father a cold and unblinking stare, Alayne resisted every urge in her body to boldly retort. Instead she didn’t react at all; not a flinch, a furrowed brow or a twitching lip. It was only thanks to her years of practise that she was able to maintain her stoic exterior. 

Petyr was too preoccupied with gathering his papers, the plans for the upcoming nuptials already filling his head, to notice the discomfort his words had caused her. 

Alayne shoved a whole fried egg just so she would keep quiet, and thought bitterly to herself, Winterfell will be mine, not ours. 

╚═════☩══✦══☩═════╝

╔═════☩══♛══☩═════╗

Splatters of scarlet coloured blood stained his white furry maw, the remnants of flesh, offal and fur stuck to the tops of his sharp canines. 

Sprinting through the trees, until they were a mere green blur in his periphery, the stench of death mixed with the musk of the earth followed him no matter how fast he ran; his huge paws sending mud flying through the air as they ferociously hit the ground.

But something spooked him, cashing him stopping him in his tracks and skid into place, finding himself in a slight clearing. It wasn’t a sound, or a vibration or movement of any kind which perturbed him, but the change of scent. No longer did death linger around him but it was the sweet smell of roses, and something else of which he couldn’t quite recognise, which filled the air, delicately caressing his nostrils. 

He raised his snout up in the air, sniffing around him in an attempt to find the source of the wonderful smell, traversing across of the piles of mossy stones and broken trees as he went. 

The sun shone through the trees like prison bars, and the wind brushed past him, delicately moving the ferns to and fro. But he knew he was getting closer as the scent was getting stronger, and it was as alluring as the smell of blood. 

Whining and grunting in frustration, the aroma was still teasing him after he had been searching for what felt like an age. The smell was so pungent he felt like it would appear in front of his nose at any point but nothing came. 

Until he saw a flash of something bright blue- cerulean- behind the bushes, enter the corner of his eye after he shook his head out of annoyance. Springing himself towards his new lead, he felt as though it were pulling him closer and drawing him in. 

As he ran towards the bright blue object, he entered into the dense bushes, unable to clearly see what was right in front of him. And as he did, he fell head first in a deep river. 

Jon screamed bloody murder, the shock of the freezing cold water pulling him out of his dream and into reality. Jumping up in bed, Jon found himself soaked and lying in a pool of water. Wiping his eyes to see who was before him, he found Davos standing opposite him, bucket in hand and a scowl on his face. 

“What the fuck was that for?!” Jon exclaimed, panting and coughing up the water which so violently hit the back of his throat. 

“You weren’t waking up,” Davos nonchalantly explained with a shrug. 

“You could have just shaken me!”

“Do you not think I tried that? Nothing was working, your grace,” Davos snapped, “It’s not my fault you drank enough for the whole castle last night!”

Grumbling insults to himself, his ran a hand through his now wet hair, and could feel the headache coming on. He moaned, his head sensitive to touch, and gently massaged his temples. 

And here comes the worst hangover of a lifetime, he thought. 

“How much did I drink last night?” Jon whined, not sure if even he wanted to know the answer. 

“I don’t know,” Davos replied, dumping the bucket on the floor and folding his arms in front of him, “Maybe you should ask Alayne Stone.”

Alayne Stone? 

Jon forced his mind to try and remember the events of the night before but the recollection was unclear. He did remember Alayne being there at one point however, and he knew for certain that he was most definitely drunk enough to have done something so mortifying, and so humiliating. 

“Oh gods,” Jon groaned, scrunching up his eyes, as if the more he did so, the less of an embarrassment he had made of himself. 

“Yes, oh gods indeed,” Davos agreed, raising his eyebrows, and went on to inform, “You drank so much that you couldn’t walk.”

“Oh gods,” Jon repeated. 

“And after virtually carrying you to your room, it’s a good thing the first door she knocked on was mine.” 

“Damn, that was lucky,” Jon murmured, hoping to ease the tension. 

“No what’s lucky is that her father hasn’t skinned you alive!

“If anyone saw anything, it puts her and you, ergo, us,” he yelled, pointing to himself, “in a compromising situation.”

Jon winced. 

“If you think this is correct way to promote allegiances, you are mistaken,” Davos growled.

“What were you thinking?! Fraternising with men’s daughters is what gets you killed, Jon.” 

“Nothing happened!” Jon screeched, eager to defend himself. But truly, he was far too drunk be able to remember whether something did happen between them. 

“It doesn’t matter if something did or didn’t,” Davos explained more calmly, “it’s what it looks like, and you two walking all about the castle, all over each other, late at night after hours of drinking doesn’t look good, Jon.” 

“What do you want me to say?” Jon asked, earnestly, “Last night, I carelessly drank my sorrows away, but haven’t we all?” 

He reached out to grab his advisors arm, and apologised, “I’m sorry, Davos. I made a mistake and I’ll make up for it.”

Knowing that Jon could do nothing more about it now, and hoping that Baelish never found out, Davos’ expression softened, and he sighed softly. 

“Well, I’m sure Miss Stone appreciated your rendition of the Dornishmans Wife,” the Old Smuggler teased with a cheeky grin. 

“I didn’t?” Jon stated in disbelief. 

“Oh yes, yes you did,” Davos confirmed. 

Jon fell back down onto the bed, grabbing a pillow and screamed into it. After expressing his frustration, he moved the pillow to the side and lay there, staring up at the canopy, an embarrassed mess. 

“Come on, get up you great lump,” Davos said, and jabbed at side, “I’ve already let you lie in already. We need to up and ready just in case they come back with an answer today”

Without even turning his head to look at his closest advisor, Jon lay still and unmoved.

Davos sighed, “We need you presentable at least”

“I feel like death,” he complained, “never, in my life have I drunk like that, and never have I had a hangover as awful as like this.” 

“I’ll get you something for the hangover. But you, you need to eat, drink some fluids, and more importantly, bathe,” Davos noted, his nose wrinkled, “You stink.”

Jon snorted, and with a smirk said, “thanks.”

“I’ll leave you to sort yourself out. I’ll meet you in the dining room for breakfast, and hopefully a hangover cure.” 

Jon sighed, nodded reluctantly.

With pat on the shoulder and a brief smile, Davos made his way out the room. The minute he heard the door close behind him, Jon groaned, just louder this time. And dragging himself out of bed, he stumbled over to the table. He passed a full length mirror on his way, and stopped to inspect himself.

Not only did he feel like death but he looked like it too. His curly raven hair was strewn about his face in a tangled mess, and his eyes were puffy and lined with an irritated red colour. 

“Well done, Jon,” he told himself, “you’ve really out done yourself this time.” 

Jon heard the door open behind him and he practically jumped up three feet in the air. Spinning round, a small, strange and hidden part of him thought that it might be Alayne, surprising him again like she did last night, to ask him whether he’s ok. 

But it was a some scullery maids with jugs of hot water in hand, ready to fill up the empty copper bath tub in the corner of the room. One with dusty blonde blonde hair carried a towel, and a beige bag full of what Jon could only guess was to be flowers and some herbs. Although he had gotten used to the oil-infused baths like the ones his aunt persuaded him to try in the Captial, he always preferred the simple things. 

Feeling exposed in just thin cotton trousers, Jon rushed to his bed in order to grab something to cover himself with. His reputation already breached with Alayne debacle of the previous night and he didn’t want the whole Eeyrie thinking he was some sort of pervert. 

“I’m sorry, ladies,” he awkwardly apologised, “I didn’t know you would be coming.” 

“It’s really not a problem, your grace,” the dusty blonde, obviously some sort of superior replied. He saw a quick flash of a smirk appear on the girls face, and her friends quickly covered the giggling with the sound of running the bath. 

Jon rushed to put a shirt on, and some sort of robe at least before the girls actually ingested him with their eyes. He knew how long it took to run a bath, and it did not take as long as it took for them to, even if they did decorate with all the herbs and flowers of Westeros. They just wanted to spend as much time as they could in the same room, unchaperoned,  
with the Prince. 

Too awkward to even look at them, Jon occupied himself with drinking cups,  
and cups of water. His mouth felt as dry as the Dornish Desert, and if he wanted his headache to ease, he had to hydrate himself. 

Gazing out the window, Jon noticed that despite the current sun shine,  
heavy clouds clouds were in the horizon, and heading towards them. As a Northerner, he knew instantly that they weren’t rain clouds, they were dense, white snow clouds. It was to be the first snow of the Long Winter. 

Distracted by the outside world, Jon didn’t hear the calls to attention of the scullery maids, and only broke out of his daze when the blonde tapped him on his shoulder. Jon startled slightly, turned to look at her. 

“Your Grace? I also have a note to give you,” she informed, holding out the note little envelope towards him. 

Jon didn’t take it right away, only asking suspiciously, “From whom?”

Perhaps its Daenerys, he thought? That’s impossible, Jon, he retorted, mail doesn’t travel that fast. But, he couldn’t think of who else it could be. 

“Lord Baelish, your Grace.”

╚═════☩══✦══☩═════╝

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it’s been a while. But a lot has gone on, I went to Stockholm, and then went to university which has been so busy. Just a whirlwind of stuff, which means that writing has been hard. So I’m sorry it was for so, so, so long. But here’s the next part. 💖

**Author's Note:**

> I am terrified about posting this, so please be nice. It’s not perfect, I’m not the best writer and I know this but it feels great to express myself and practise writing. Speaking about writing, I’ve never written anything like this before so I hope it’s literate at least. All you need to know is that Sansa is fullly indoctrinated into Alayne, she believes Jon is a danger to her and to her horror, Jon is visiting. Jon’s alliances are unclear for now. Thank you for reading :-) I really appreciate it x


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